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THELMA 


A NORWEGIAN PRINCESS. 


By MARIE CORELLI, 

Author oj “J, Romance of Two Worlds f Wormwood f eta 


NEW YORK: 

A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER. 





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THELMA 


BOOK I. 

THE LAND OF THE MIDIIOHT SHif . 


CHAPTER I. 

Dream by dream shot through her eyes, and each 
Outshone the last that lighted.” 

SwmBURNE. 

Midnight, — without darkness, without stars ! Miduight, 
.^and the unwearied sun stood, yet visible in the heavens, 
like a victorious king throned on a dais of royal purple 
bordered with gold. The sky above him, — his canopy, — 
gleamed with- a cold j^et lustrious blue, while across it 
slowly flitted a few wandering clouds of palest amber, deep- 
ening, as they sailed along, to a tawny orange. A broad 
stream of light falling, as it were, from the centre of the 
magnificent orb, shot lengthwise across the Altenfjord, 
turning its waters to a mass of quivering and shifting color 
that alternated from bronze to copper, — from copper to sil- 
ver and azure. The surrounding hills glowed with a warm, 
deep violet tint, flecked here and there with touches of 
bright red, as though fairies were lighting tiny bonfires on 
their summits. Away in the distance a huge mass of rock 
stood out to view, its rugged lines transfigured into ethe- 
real loveliness by a misty veil of tender rose i)ink, — a hue 
curiously suggestive of some other and smaller sun that 
might have just set. Absolute silence prevailed. Not even 
the cry of a sea-mew or kittiwake broke the almost death- 
like stillness., — no breath of wind stirred a ripple on the 
glassy water. The whole scene migjit well have been the 
ikntastic dream of some imaginative painter, whose ambi- 
tion soared beyond the limits of human skill. Yet it v*'as 

( 3 ) 


4 


THELMA. 


only one of those million wonderful effects of sky and sea 
which are common in Norway, especially on the Altenfjord, 
where, though beyond the Arctic circle, the climate in sum- 
mer is that of another Italy, and the landscape a living 
poem fairer than the visions of Endymion. 

There was one solitary watcher of the splendid spectacle. 
This was a man of refined features and aristocratic appear- 
ance, who, reclining on a large rug of skins which he had 
thrown down on the shore for that purpose, was gazing at 
the pageant of the midnight sun and all its stately sur- 
roundings, with an earnest and rapt expression in his clear 
hazel eyes. 

“Glorious! beyond all expectation, glorious!” he mur- 
mured half aloud, as he consulted his watch and saw that 
the hands marked exactly twelve on the dial. “ I believe 
Ihn having the best of it, after all. Even if those fellows 
get the Eulalie into good position they will see nothing 
finer than this.” 

As he spoke he raised his field-glass and swept the hori- 
zon in search of a vessel, his own pleasure yacht, — which 
had taken three of his friends, at their special desire, to the 
opposite island of Seiland, — Seiland, rising in weird maj- 
esty three thousand feet above the sea, and boasting as its 
chief glory the great peak of Jedke, the most northern 
glacier in all the wild Norwegian land. There was no sign 
of a returning sail, and he resumed his study of the sump- 
tuous sky, the colors of which were now deepening and 
burning with increasing lustre, while an array of clouds of 
the deepest purple hue swept gorgeously together beneath 
the sun as though to form his footstool. 

One might imagine that the trump of the Eesurrection 
had sounded, and that all this aerial pomp, — this strange 
silence, — was just the pause, the supreme moment before 
the angels descended,” he mused, with a half-smile at his 
own fancy, for though something of a poet at heart, he was 
much more of a cynic. He was too deeply imbued with 
modern fashionable atheism to think seriously about angels 
or Eesurrection trumps, but there was a certain love of 
mysticism and romance in his nature, which not even his 
Oxford experiences and the chilly dullness of English ma- 
terialism had been able to eradicate. And there was some- 
thing impressive in the sight of the majestic orb holding 
such imperial revel at midnight, — something almost un- 
earthly in the light ^nd life of the heavens^ as compared 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


5 


with the reverential and seemingly worshipping silence of 
the earth, — that, for a few moments, awed him into a sense 
of the spiritual and unseen. Mytliical passages from the 
poets he loved came into his memory, and stray fragments 
of old songs and ballads he had known in his childhood re- 
turned to him with haunting persistence. It was, for him, 
one of those sudden halts in life which we all experience, — 
an instant, — when time and the world seem to stand still, as 
though to permit us easy breathing ; a brief space, — in^, 
which we are allowed to stop and wonder awhile at the 
strange unaccountable force within us, that enables us to 
stand with such calm, smiling audacity, on our small pin’s 
point of the present, betw^een the wide dark gaps of past 
and future ; a small hush, — in which the gigantic engines 
of the universe appear to revolve no more, and the immor- 
tal Soul of man itself is subjected and over-ruled by su- 
preme and eternal Thought. Drifting away on those deli- 
cate imperceptible lines that lie between reality and dream- 
land, the watcher of the midnight sun gave himself up to 
the half painful, half delicious sense of being drawn in, ab- 
sorbed, and lost in infinite imaginings, when the intense 
stillness around him was broken by the sound of a voice 
singing, a full, rich contralto, that rang through the air with 
the clearness of a golden bell. The sweet liquid notes were 
those of an old Norwegian mountain melody, one of those 
wildly pathetic folk-songs that seem to hold all the sorrow, 
wonder, wistfulness, and indescribable yearning of a heart 
too full for other speech than music. He started to his feet 
and looked around him for the singer. There was no one 
visible. The amber streaks in the sk}^ w^ere leaping into 
crimson flame; the Fjord glowed like the burning lake of 
Dante’s vision ; one solitary sea-gull winged its graceful, 
noiseless flight far above, its wdiite pinions shimmering like 
jewels as it crossed the radiance of the heavens. Other 
sign of animal life there was none. Still the hidden voice 
rippled on in a stream of melody, and the listener stood 
amazed and enchanted at the rouhdness and distinctness of 
every note that fell from the lips of the unseen vocalist. 

“ A woman’s voice,” he thought ; “ but where is the 
woman ? ” 

Puzzled, he looked to the right and left, then out to the 
shining Fjord, half expecting to see some fisher-maiden 
rowing along, and singing as she roTved, but there was no 
sign of any living creature. While he waited, the voice 


6 


THELMA. 


suddenly ceased, and the song was replaced by tlie sharp 
grating of a keel on the beach. Turning in the direction 
of this sound, he perceived a boat being pushed out by in- 
visible hands towards the water’s edge from a rocky cave, 
that jutted upon the Fjord, and, full of curiosity, he stepped 
towards the arched entrance, when, — all suddenly and un* 
expectedly, — a girl sprang out from the dark interior, and 
standing erect in her boat, faced the intruder. A girl of 
about nineteen she seemed, taller than most women, — with a 
magnificent uncovered mass of hair, the color of the mid- 
night sunshine, tumbled over her shoulders, and flashing 
against her flushed cheeks and dazzlingly fair skin. Her 
deep blue eyes had an astonished and certainly indignant 
expression in them, while he, utterly unprepared for such 
a vision of loveliness at such a time and in such a place, 
was for a moment taken aback and at a loss for words. 
Recovering his habitual self-possession quickly, however, 
he raised his hat, and, pointing to the boat, which was 
more than half way out of the cavern, said simply — 

“ May I assist you ? ” 

She was silent, eyeing him with a keen glance which had 
something in it of disfavor and suspicion. 

“ I suppose she doesn’t understand English,” he thought, 
“ and I can’t speak a word of Norwegian. I must talk by 
signs.” 

And forthwith he went through a labored pantomime of 
gesture, sufficiently ludicrous in itself, yet at the same 
time expressive of his meaning. The girl broke into a 
laugh — a laugh of sweet amusement which brought a thou- 
sand new sparkles of light into her lovely eyes. 

“ That is very well done,” she observed graciously, speak- 
ing English with something of a foreign accent. “ Even 
the Lapps would understand you, and they are very stupid, 
poor things ! ” 

Half vexed by her laughter, and feeling that he was 
somehow an object of ridicule to this tall, bright-haired 
maiden, he ceased his pantomimic gestures abruptly and 
stood looking at her with a slight flush of embarrassment 
on his features. 

“ I know your language,” she resumed quietly, after a 
brief pause, in which she had apparently considered the 
stranger’s appearance and general bearing. “ It was rude 
of me not to have answered you at once. You can help me 
if you will. The keel has caught among the pebbles, but 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


7 


we can easily move it between us.” And, jumping lightly 
out of her boat, she grasped its edge firmly with her strong 
white hands, exclaiming gaily, as she did so, “ Push I ” 

Thus adjured, he lost no time in complying with her re- 
quest, and, using his great strength and muscular force to 
good purpose, the light little craft was soon well in the 
water, swaying to and fro as though with impatience to be 
gone. The girl sprang to her seat, discarding his eagerly 
proffered assistance, and, taking both oars, laid them in 
their respective rowlocks, and seemed about to start, when 
she paused and asked abruptly — 

“ Are you a sailor ? ” 

He smiled. “Not II Do I zemind you of one ? ” 

“ You are strong, and you manage a boat as though yen 
were accustomed to the work. Also you look as if you had 
been at sea.” 

“ Rightly guessed I ” he replied, still smiling ; “ I cer- 
tainly have been at sea ; I have been coasting all about 
your lovely land. My yacht went across to Seiland this 
afternoon.” 

She regarded him more intently, and observed, with the 
critical eye of a woman, the refined taste displayed in his 
dress, from the very cut of his loose travelling coat, to the 
luxurious rug of fine fox-shins, that lay so carelessly cast on 
the shore at a little distance from him. Then she gave a 
gesture of hauteur and half-contempt. 

“You have a yacht? Oh I then you area gentleman. 
You do nothing for your living ? ” 

“ Nothing, indeed I ” and he shrugged his shoulders with 
a mingled air of weariness and self-pity, “ except one thing 
— I live 1 ” 

“ Is that hard work ? ” she inquired wonderingly. 

“ Very.” 

They were silent then, and the girl’s face grew" serious as 
she rested on her oars, and still surveyed him with a straight, 
candid gaze, that, though earnest and penetrating, had 
nothing of boldness in it. It was the look of one in whose 
past there were no secrets — the look of a child who is sat- 
isfied with the present and takes no thought for the future. 
Few women look so after they have entered their teens. 
Social artifice, affectation, and the insatiate vanity that 
modern life encourages in the feminine nature — all these 
things soon do away with the pellucid clearness and stead- 
fastness of the eye — the beautiful, true, untamed expression, 


8 


THELMA. 


which, though so rare, is, when seen infinitely more be* 
witching than all the bright arrows of coquetry and spark- 
ling invitation that fiash from the glances of well-bred so- 
ciety dames, who have taken care to educate their eyes if 
not their hearts. This girl was evidently not trained prop- 
erly ; had she been so, she would have dropped a curtain 
over those wide, bright windows of her soul ; she would 
have remembered that she was alone with a strange man at 
midnight — at midnight, though the sun shone ; she would 
have simpered and feigned embarrassment, even if she 
could not feel it. As it happened, she did nothing of the 
kind, only her expression softened and became more wistful 
and earnest, and when she spoke again her voice was mel- 
low with a suave gentleness, that had something in it of 
compassion. 

“ If you do not love life itself,” she said, “ you love the 
beautiful things of life, do you not ? See yonder I There 
is what we call the meeting of night and morning. One is 
glad to be alive at such a moment. Look quickly ! The 
light soon fades.” 

She pointed towards the east. Her companion gazed in 
that direction, and uttered an exclamation, — almost a shout, 
— of wonder and admiration. Within the space of the past 
few minutes the aspect of the heavens had completely 
changed. The burning scarlet and violet hues had all 
melted into a transparent yet brilliant shade of pale mauve, 
— as delicate as the inner tint of a lilac blossom, — and 
across this stretched two wing-shaped gossamer clouds of 
watery green, fringed with soft primrose. Between these 
cloud-wings, as opaline in lustre as those of a dragon-fly, 
the face of the sun shone like a shield of polished gold, 
while his rays, piercing spear-like through the varied tints 
of emerald, brought an unearthly radiance over the land- 
scape — a lustre as though the moon were, in some strange 
way, battling with the sun for masteiy over the visible un- 
iverse, though, looking southward, she could dimly be per- 
ceived, the ghost of herself — a poor, fainting, pallid god- 
dess, — a perishing Diana. 

Bringing his glance down from the skies, the young man 
turned it to the face of the maiden near him, and was 
startled at her marvellous beauty — beauty now heightened 
by the effect of the changeful colors that played around 
her. The very boat in w^hich she sat glittered with a 
bronze-like, metallic brightness as it heaved gently to and 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


fro on the silvery green water ; the midnight sunshine 
bathed the falling glory of her long hair, till each thick 
tress, each clustering curl, appeared to emit an amber spark 
of light. The strange, weird effect of the sky seemed to 
have stolen into her eyes, making them shine with witch- 
like brilliancy, — the varied radiance flashing about her 
brought into strong relief the pureness of her profile, draw- 
ing as with a fine pencil the outlines of her noble forehead, 
sweet mouth, and rounded chin. It touched the scarlet of 
her bodice, and brightened the quaint old silver clasps she 
wore at her waist and throat, till she seemed no longer an 
earthly being, but more like some fair wondering sprite 
from the legendary Norse kingdom of Alfheim^ the “ abode 
of the Luminous Genii.” 

She was gazing upwards, — heavenwards, — and her ex- 
pression was one of rapt and almost devotional intensity. 
Thus she remained for some moments, motionless as the 
picture of an expectant angel painted by Raff'aele or Cor- 
reggio ; then reluctantly and with a deep sigh she turned 
her eyes towards earth again. In so doing she met the 
fixed and too visibly admiring gaze of her companion. She 
started, and a wave of vivid color flushed her cheeks. 
Quickly recovering her serenity, however, she saluted him 
slightly, and, moving her oars in unison, was on the point 
of departure. 

Stirred by an impulse he could not resist, he laid one 
hand detainingly on the rim of her boat. 

“ Are you going now ? ” he asked. 

She raised her eyebrows in some little surprise and 
smiled. 

“ Going ? ” she repeated. “ Why, yes. I shall be late in 
getting home as it is.” 

“ Stop a moment,” he said eagerly, feeling that he could 
not let this beautiful creature leave him as utterly as a 
midsummer night’s dream without some clue as to her 
origin and destination. “ Will you not tell me your name ?” 

She drew herself erect with a look of indignation. 

“ Sir, I do not know you. The maidens of Norway do 
not give their names to strangers.” 

Pardon me,” he replied, somewhat abashed. “ I mean 
no offense. We have watched the midnight sun together, 
and— and— I thought ” 

He paused, feeling very foolish, and unable to conclude 
his sentence. 


10 


THELMA. 


She looked at him demurely from under her long, curling 
lashes. 

“ You will often find a peasant girl on the shores of the 
Altenfjord watching the midnight sun at the same time as 
yourself,” she said, and there was a suspicion of laughter in 
her voice. “It is not unusual. It is not even necessary 
that you should remember so little a thing.” 

“ Necessary or not, I shall never forget it,” he said with 
sudden impetuosity. “You are no peasant! Come; if I 
give you my name will you still deny me yours ? ” 

Her delicate brows drew together in a frown of haughty 
and decided refusal. “No names please my ears save those 
that are familiar,” she said, with intense coldness. “We 
shall not meet again. Farewell I ” 

And without further word or look, she leaned gracefully 
to the oars, and pulling with a long, steady, resolute stroke, 
the little boat darted away as lightly and swiftly as a skim- 
ming swallow out on the shimmering water. He stood 
gazing after it till it became a distant speck sparkling like 
a diamond in the light of sky and wave, and when he could 
no more watch it with unassisted eyes, he took up his field 
glass and followed its course attentively. He saw it cutting 
along as straightly as an arrow, then suddenly it dipped 
round to the westward, appar’ently making straight for 
some shelving rocks, that projected far into the Fjordo It 
reached them ; it grew less and less — it disappeared. At 
the same time the lustre of the heavens gave way to a pale 
pearl-like uniform grey tint, that stretched far and wide, 
folding up as in a mantle all the regal luxury of the Sun- 
king’s palace. The subtle odor and delicate chill of the 
coming dawn stole freshly across the water. A light haze 
rose and obscured the opposite islands. Something of the 
tender melancholy of autumn, though it was late June, 
toned down the aspect of the before brilliant landscape. A 
lark rose swiftly from its nest in an adjacent meadow, and, 
soaring higher and higher, poured from its tiny throat a 
cascade of delicious melody. The midnight sun no longer 
shone at midnight ; his face smiled with a sobered serenity 
through the faint early mists of approaching morning. 


TME LAND OF TEE MIDNIGRT SUN. 


U 


CHAPTER 11. 


Viens done — je te chauterai des chansons que les esprits des cim- 
eti^res m’ont apprises! ” 


Maturin. 


“ Baffled I ” he exclaimed, with a slight vexed laugh, as 
the boat vanished from his sight. “ By a woman, too I 
Who would have thought it ? ” 

Who would have thought it, indeed I Sir Philip Bruce- 
Errington, Baronet, the wealthy and desirable parti for 
whom many match-making mothers had stood knee-deep in 
the chilly though sparkling waters of society, ardently 
plying rod and line with patient persistence, vainly hoping 
to secure him as a husband for one of their highly proper 
and passionless daughters, — he, the admired, long-sought- 
after “ eligible,” was suddenly rebuffed, flouted — by whom ? 
A stray princess, or a peasant. He vaguely wondered, as 
he lit a cigar and strolled up and down on the shore, medi- 
tating, with a puzzled, almost annoyed expression on his 
handsome features. He was not accustomed to slights of 
any kind, however trifling ; his position being commanding 
and enviable enough to attract flattery and friendship from 
most people. He was the only son of a baronet as re- 
nowned for eccentricity as for wealth. He had been the 
spoilt darling of his mother ; and now, both his parents 
being dead, he was alone in the world, heir to his father's 
revenues, and entire master of his own actions. And as 
part of the penalty he had to pay for being rich and good- 
looking to boot, he was so much run after by women that 
he found it hard to understand the haughty indifference 
with which he had just been treated by one of the most 
fair, if not the fairest of her sex. He was piqued, and his 
amour propre was wounded. 

“ I’m sure my question was harmless enough,” he 
mused, half crossly. “ She might-have answered it.” 

He glanced out impatiently over the Fjord. There was 
no sign of his returning yacht as yet. 

“ What a time those fellows are ! ” he said to himself. 
“If the pilot were not on board, I should begin to think 
they had run the Eulalie aground.” 


12 


THELMA. 


He finished his cigar and threw the end of it into the 
water ; then he stood moodily watching the ripples as they 
rolled softly up and caressed the shining brown shore at his 
feet, thinking all the while of that strange girl, so wonder- 
fully lovely in face and form, so graceful and proud of bear- 
ing, with her great blue eyes and masses of dusky gold 
hair. 

His meeting with her was a sort of adventure in its way 
— the first of the kind he had had for some time. He was 
subject to fits of weariness or caprice, and it was in one of 
these that he had suddenly left London in the height of the 
season, and had started for Norway on a yachting cruise 
with three chosen companions, one of whom, George Lori- 
mer, once an Oxford fellow-student, was now his “ chum ” 
— the Pythias to his Damon, the Jidiis Achates of his closest 
confidence. Through the unexpected wakening up of 
energy in the latter young gentleman, who was usually of 
k most sleepy and indolent disposition, he happened to be 
quite alone on this particular occasion, though, as a general 
rule, he was accompanied in his rambles by one if not all 
three of his friends. Utter solitude was with him a rare 
occurrence, and his present experience of it had chanced in 
this wise. Lorimer the languid, Lorimer the lazy, Lorimer 
who had remained blandly unmoved and drowsy through all 
the magnificent panorama of the Norwegian coast, includ- 
ing the Sogne Fjord and the topifiing peaks of the Justedal 
glaciers ; Lorimer who had slept peacefull}^ in a hammock 
on deck, even while the yacht was passing under the loom- 
ing splendors of Melsnipa ; Lorimer, now that he had 
arrived at the Alten Fjord, then at its loveliest in the full 
glory of the continuous sunshine, developed a new turn of 
mind, and began to show sudden and abnormal interest in 
the scenery. In this humor he expressed his desire to 
“ take a sight ” of the midnight sun from the island of 
Seiland, and also declared his resolve to try the nearly iin- 
possible ascent of the great Jedke glacier. 

Errington laughed at the idea. “ Don’t tell me,” he said, 
“ that you are going in for climbing. And do you suppose 
I believe that you are interested — you of all people — in the 
heavenly bodies ? ” 

“ Why not? ” asked Lorimer, with a candid smile. “ I’m 
not in the least interested in eartlily bodies, except my own. 
The sun’s a jolly fellow. I sympathize with him in his 
present condition. He’s in his cups — that’s what’s the 


TEE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 


13 


matter — and he can’t be persuaded to go to bed. I know 
his feelings perfectly ; and I want to survey his gloriously 
inebriated face from another point of view. Don’t laugh, 
Phil ; I’m in earnest I And I really have quite a curiosity 
to try my skill in amateur mountaineering. Jedke’s the 
very place for a first efibrt. It offers difficulties, and ” — 
this with a slight yawn — “ I like to surmount difficulties ; 
it’s rather amusing.” 

His mind was so evidently set upon the excursion, that 
Sir Philip made no attempt to dissuade him from it, but 
excused himself from accompanying the party on the plea 
that he wanted to finish a sketch he had recently begun. So 
that when the Eulalie got up her steam, weighed anchor, 
and swept gracefully away towards the coast of the adjacent 
islands, her owner was left, at his desire, to the seclusion of 
a quiet nook on the shore of the AltenlQord, where he suc- 
ceeded in making a bold and vivid picture of the scene be- 
fore him. The colors of the sky had, however, defied his 
palette, and after one or two futile attempts to transfer to his 
canvas a few of the gorgeous tints that illumed the land- 
scape, he gave up the task in despair, and resigned himself 
to the dolce far niente of absolute enjoyment. From his 
half pleasing, half melancholy reverie the voice of the un- 
known maiden had startled him, and now, — now she had 
left him to resume it if he chose, — left him, in chill dis- 
pleasure. with a cold yet brilliant flash of something like 
scorn in her wonderful eyes. 

Since her departure the scenery, in some unaccountable 
way, seemed less attractive to him, the songs of the birds, 
who were all awake, fell on inattentive ears ; he was haunted 
by her face and voice, and he was, moreover, a little out of 
humor with himself for having been such a blunderer as to 
give her offense, and thus leave an unfavorable impression 
on her mind. 

“ I suppose I was rude,” he considered after a while. 
‘‘ She seemed to think so, at any rate. By Jove I what a 
crushing look she gave me I A peasant ? Not she! If 
she had said she was an empress I shouldn’t have been 
much surprised. But a mere common peasant, with that 
regal figure and those white hands I I don’t believe it. 
Perhaps our pilot, Valdemar, knows who she is ; I must 
ask him.” 

All at once he bethought himself of the cave whence she 
had emerged. It was close at hand — a natural grotto. 


14 


THELMA. 


arched and apparently lofty. He resolved to explore it. 
Glancing at his watch he saw it was not yet one o’clock in 
the morning, yet the voice of the cuckoo called shrilly from 
the neighboring hills, and a circling group of swallows flit- 
ted around him, their lovely wings glistening like jewels in 
the warm light of the ever-wakeful sun. Going to the en- 
trance of the cave, he looked in. It was formed of rough 
rock, hewn out by the silent work of the water, and its floor 
was strewn thick with loose pebbles and polished stones. En- 
tering it, he was able to walk upright for some few paces, then 
suddenly it seemed to shrink in size and to become darker. 
The light from the opening gradually narrowed into a slen- 
der stream too small for him to see clearly where he was 
going, thereupon he struck a fusee. At first he could ob- 
serve no sign of human habitation, not even a rope, or 
chain, or hook, to intimate that it w^as a customary shelter 
for a boat. The fusee went out quickly, and he lit another. 
Looking more carefully and closely about him, he perceived 
on a projecting shelf of rock, a small antique lamp, Etrus- 
can in shape, made of iron and wrought with curious let- 
ters. There was oil in it, and a half-burnt wick ; it had 
evidently been recently used. He availed himself at once 
of this useful adjunct to his explorations, and lighting it, 
was able by the clear and steady flame it emitted, to see 
everything very distinctly. Right before him was an un- 
even flight of steps leading down to a closed door. 

He paused and listened attentively. There was no sound 
but the slow lapping of the water near the entrance ; within, 
the thickness of the cavern walls shut out the gay carolling 
of the birds, and all the cheerful noises of awakening na- 
ture. Silence, chillness, and partial obscurity are depress- 
ing influences, and the warm blood flowing through his 
veins, ran a trifle more slowly and coldly as he felt the sort 
of uncomfortable eerie sensation which is experienced by 
the j oiliest and most careless traveller, when lie first goes 
down to the catacombs in Rome. A sort of damp, earthy 
shudder creeps through the system, and a dreary feeling of 
general hopelessness benumbs the faculties ; a morbid state 
of body and mind which is only to be remedied by a speedy 
return to the warm sunlight, and a draught of generous 
wine. 

Sir Philip, however, held the antique lamp aloft, and de- 
scended the clumsy steps cautiously, counting twenty steps 
in all, at the bottom of which he found himself face to face 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


16 


with the closed door. It was made of hard wood, so hard 
as to be almost like iron. It was black with age, and cov- 
ered with quaint carvings and inscriptions ; but in the mid- 
dle, standing out in bold relief among the numberless 
Runic figures and devices, was written in large well-cut let- 
ters the word — 


“ By Jove 1 ” he exclaimed, “ I have it I The girl’s name, 
of course I This is some private retreat of hers, I suppose, 
— a kind of boudoir like my Lady Winsleigh’s, only with 
rather a difference.” 

And he laughed aloud, thinking of the dainty gold-satin 
hangings of a certain room in a certain great mansion in 
Park Lane, where an aristocratic and handsome lady-leader 
of fashion had as nearly made love to him as it was possi- 
ble for her to do without losing her social dignity. 

His laugh was echoed back with a weird and hollow 
sound, as though a hidden demon of the cave were mocking 
him, a demon whose merriment was intense but also horri- 
ble. He heard the unpleasant jeering repetition with a kind 
of careless admiration. 

“ That echo would make a fortune in Faust., if it could bo 
persuaded to back up Mephistopheles with that truly fiend- 
ish he said, resuming his examination of the 

name on the door. Then an odd fancy seized him, and he 
called loudly — 

“ Thelma I ” 

“ Thelma ! ” shouted the echo. 

“Is that her name ? ” 

“ Her name ! ” replied the echo. 

“ I thought so ! ” And Philip laughed again, while the 
echo laughed wildly in answer. “ Just the sort of name to 
suit a Norwegian nymph or goddess. Thelma is quaint 
and appropriate, and as far as I can remember there’s no 
rhyme to it in the English language. Thelma ! ” And he 
lingered on the pronunciation of the ‘strange word with a 
curious sensation of pleasure. “ There is something mys- 
teriously suggestive about the sound of it ; like a chord of 
music played softly in the distance. Now, can I get through 
this door, I wonder ? ” 

He pushed it gently. It yielded very slightly, and he 
tried again and yet again. Finally, he put down the lamp 
and set his shoulder against the wooden barrier with all his 


16 


THELMA. 


force. A dull creaking sound rewarded his efforts, and 
inch by inch the huge door opened into what at first ap- 
peared immeasurable darkness. Holding up the light he 
looked in, and uttered a smothered exclamation. A sudden 
gust of wind rushed from the sea through the passage and 
extinguished the lamp, leaving him in profound gloom. 
Nothing daunted he sought his fusee case; there was just 
one left in it. This he hastily struck, and shielding the 
, glow carefully with one hand, relit his lamp, and stepped 
boldly into the mysterious grotto. 

The murmur of the wind and waves, like spirit-voices in 
unison, followed him as he entered. He found himself in 
a spacious winding corridor, that had evidently been hol- 
lowed out in the rocks and fashioned by human hands. Its 
construction was after the ancient Gothic method ; but the 
wonder of the place consisted in the walls, which were en- 
tirely covered with shells, — shells of every shape and hue, — 
some delicate as rose-leaves, some rough and prickly, others 
polished as ivor3^, some gleaming with a thousand irrides- 
cent colors, others pure white as the foam on high billows. 
Many of them were turned artistically in such a position as 
to show their inner sides glistening with soft tints like the 
shades of fine silk or satin, — others glittered with the opa- 
line sheen of mother-o’-pearl. All were arranged in ex- 
quisite patterns, evidently copied from fixed mathematical 
designs, — there were stars, crescents, roses, sunflowers, 
hearts, crossed daggers, ships and implements of war, all 
faithfully depicted with extraordinary^ neatness and care, 
as though each particular emblem had served some special 
purpose. 

Sir Philip walked along very slowly, delighted with his 
discovery, and, — pausing to examine each panel as he 
passed, — amused himself with speculations as to the mean- 
ing of this beautiful cavern, so fancifully yet skillfully 
decorated. 

“ Some old place of worship, I suppose,” he thought. 
“ There must be many such hidden in different s parts of 
Norway. It has nothing to do with the Christian faith, 
for among all these devices I don’t perceive a single cross.” 

He was right. There were on crosses ; but there were 
many designs of the sun — the sun rising, the sun setting, 
the sun in full glory', with all his rays embroidered round 
him in tiny shells, some of them no bigger than a pin’^ 
head. 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


IT 


What a waste of time and labor,” he mused. “ Who 
would undertake such a thing nowadays ? Fancy the pa- 
tience and delicacy of finger required to fit all these 
shells in their places ! and they are embedded in strong 
mortar too, as if the work were meant to be indestructi- 
ble.” 

Full of pleased interest, he pursued his way, winding in 
and out through different arches, all more or less richly 
ornamented, till he came to a tall, round column, which 
seemingly supported the whole gallery, for all the arches 
converged towards it. It was garlanded from top to bottom 
with their roses and their leaves, all worked in pink and 
lilac shells, interspe-rsed with small pieces of shining amber 
and polished malachite. The flicker of the lamp he carried, 
made it glisten like a mass of jewel-work, and, absorbed in 
his close examination of this unique specimen of ancient 
art, Sir Philip did not at once perceive that another light 
beside his own glimmered from out the furthest archway a 
little be^'Ond him, — an opening that led into some recess 
he had not as 3'et explored. A peculiar lustre sparkling 
on one side of the shell-work how^ever, at last attracted his 
attention, and, glancing up quickly, he saw, to his surprise^ 
the reflection of a strange radiance, rosily tinted and 
brilliant. 

Turning in its direction, he paused, irresolute. Could 
there be some one living in that furthest chamber to which 
the long passage he had followed evidently led ? some one 
who would perhaps resent his intrusion as an imperti- 
nence ? some eccentric artist or hermit who had made the 
cave his home ? Or was it perhaps a refuge for smugglers? 
He listened anxiously. There was no sound. He waited a 
minute or two, then boldly advanced, determined to solve 
the mystery. 

This last archway was lower than anj^ of those he had 
passed through, and he was forced to take off his hat and 
stoop as he went under it. When he raised his head he re- 
mained uncovered, for he saw at a glance that the place was 
sacred. He was in the presence, not of Life, but Death. 
The chamber in which he stood was square in form, and 
more richly ornamented with shell-designs than any other 
portion of the grotto he had seen, and facing the east was 
an altar hewn out of the solid rock and studded thickly 
with amber, malachite and mother-o’-pearl. It was covered 
with the incomprehensible emblems of a bygone creed 
% 


18 


THELMA. 


worked in most exquisite shell-patterns, but on it, — as 
though in solemn protest against the past, — stood a crucifix 
of ebony and carved ivory, before which burned steadily a 
red lamp. 

The meaning of the mysterious light was thus explained, 
but what chiefly interested Errington was the central object 
of the place, — a coffin, — of rather a plain granite sarcopha- 
gus which was placed on the floor lying from north to south. 
Upon it, — in strange contrast to the sombre coldness of the 
stone, — reposed a large wreath of poppies freshly gathered. 
The vivid scarlet of the flowers, the gleam of the shining 
shells on the walls, the mournful figure of the ivory Christ 
stretched on the cross among all those pagan emblems, — 
the intense silence broken only by the slow drip, drip of 
water trickling somewhere behind the cavern, — and more 
than these outward things, — his own impressive conviction 
that he was with the imperial Dead — imperial because past 
the sway of empire — all made a powerful impression on his 
mind. Overcoming by degrees his first sensations of awe, 
he approached the sarcophagus and examined it. It was 
solidly closed and mortared all round, so that it might har^e 
been one compact coffin-shaped block of stone so far as its 
outward appearance testified. Stooping more closely, how- 
ever, to look at the brilliant poppy-wreath, he started back 
with a slight exclamation. Cut deeply in the hard granite 
he read for the second time that odd name — 

It belonged to some one dead, then — not to the lovely 
living woman who had so lately confronted him in the burn- 
ing glow of the midnight sun ? He felt dismayed at his 
unthinking precipitation, — he had, in his fancy, actually 
associated her., so full of radiant health and beauty, with 
what was probably a mouldering corpse in that hermetically 
sealed tenement of stone I This idea was unpleasant, and 
jarred upon his feelings. Surely she, that golden-haired 
nymph of the Fjord, had nothing to do with death ! He 
had evidently found his way into some ancient tomb. 
“ Thelma ” might be the name or title of some long-de- 
parted queen or princess of Norway, yet, if so, how came 
the crucifix there, — the red lamp, the flowers ? 

He lingered, looking curiously about him, as if he fancied 
the shell-embroidered walls might whisper some answer to 
his thought^. The silence offered jio suggestipus. The 


t/TE land of the 3nDNIGHT SUN. 


19 


plaintive figure of the tortured Christ suspended on the 
cross maintained an immovable watch over all things, and 
there was a subtle, faint odor floating about as of crushed 
spices or herbs. While he still stood there absorbed in per- 
plexed conjectures, he became oppressed by want of air. 
The red hue of the poppy-wreath mingled with the softer 
glow of the lamp on the altar, — the moist glitter of the 
shells and polished pebbles, seemed to dazzle and confuse 
his eyes. He felt dizzy and faint — and hastily made his 
way out of that close death-chamber into the passage, where 
he leaned for a few minutes against the great central col- 
umn to recover himself. A brisk breath of wind from the 
Fjord came careering through the gallery, and blew coldly 
upon his forehead. Refreshed by it, he rapidly overcame 
the sensation of giddiness, and began to retrace his steps 
through the winding arches, thinking with Some satisfac- 
tion as he went, what a romantic incident he would have to 
relate to Lorimer and his other friends, when a sudden glarS 
of light illumined the passage, and he was brought to an 
abrupt standstill by the sound of a wild “ Halloo I ” The 
light vanished ; it reappeared. It vanished again, and 
again appeared, flinging a Strong flare upon the shell- 
worked walls as it approached. Again the fierce “ Halloo I ” 
resounded through the hollow cavities of the subterranean 
temple, and he remained motionless, waiting for an expla- 
nation of this unlooked-for turn to the events of the morn- 
ing. 

He had plenty of physical courage, and the idea of any 
addition to his adventure rather pleased him than other- 
wise. Still, with all his bravery, he recoiled a little when 
he first caught sight of the extraordinar}^ being that 
emerged from the darkness — a wild, distorted figure that 
ran towards him with its head downwards, bearing aloft in 
one skinny hand a smoking pine-torch, from which the 
sparks flew like so many fireflies, This uncanny person^ 
age, wearing the semblance of man, came within two paces 
of Errington before perceiving him ; then, stopping short in 
his headlong career, the creature flourished his torch and 
uttered a defiant yell. 

Philip surveyed him coolly and without alarm, though so 
weird an object might well have aroused a pardonable dis- 
trust, and even timidity. He saw a misshapen dwarf, not 
quite four feet high, with large, ungainlj" limbs out of all 
proportion to his head, which was small and compact. His 


20 


THEUIA, 


features were of almost feminine fineness, and from imdei 
liis shaggy brows gleamed a restless pair of large, full, wild 
blue eyes. His thick, rough flaxen hair was long and 
curly, and hung in disordered profusion over his deformed 
shoulders. His dress was of reindeer skin, very fancifully 
cut, and ornamented with beads of different colors, — and 
twisted about him as though in an effort to be artistic, w'as 
a long strip of bright scarlet woollen material, which showed 
up the extreme pallor and ill-health of the meagre counte- 
nance, and the brilliancy of the eyes that now sparkled with 
rage as they met those of Errington. He, from his superior 
height, glanced down with pity on the unfortunate creature, 
whom he at once took to be the actual owner of the cave he 
had explored. Uncertain what to do, whether to speak or 
remain silent, he moved slightly as though to pass on ; but 
the shock-headed dwarf leaped lightly in his way, and, 
planting himself firmly before him, shrieked some unintel- 
ligible threat, of which Errington could only make out the 
last words, “ Nifleheim ” and “ Nastrond.” 

“I believe he is commending me to the old Norwegian 
inferno thought the young baronet with a smile, amused 
at the little man’s evident excitement. Very polite of 
him, I’m sure I But, after all, I had no business here. I’d 
better apologize.” And forthwith he began to speak in the 
simplest English words he could choose, taking care to pro 
nounce them very slowly and distinctl}^ 

“ I cannot understand you, my good sir; but I see you 
are angry. I came here by accident. I am going away 
now at once.” 

His explanation had a strange effect. The dwarf drew 
nearer, twirled himself rapidly round three times as though 
waltzing; then, holding liis torch a little to one side, turned 
up his thin, pale countenance, and, fixing his gaze on Sir 
Philip, studied every feature of his face with absorbing in- 
terest. Then he burst into a violent fit of laughter. 

“ At last — at last ? ” he cried in fluent English. “ Going 
now? Going, you say? Never! never! You will never 
go away any more. No, not without something stolen ! 
The dead have summoned you here ! Their white bony 
fingers have dragged you across the deep ! Did you not hear 
their voices, cold and hollowas the winter wind, calling, call- 
ing you, and saying, ‘ Come, come, proud robber, from overthe 
far seas ; come and gather the beautiful rose of the northern 
forest ’ ? Yes, Yes I You have obeyed the dead— the dead 


THE^LAND OF THE ^flDNIGHT SUN. 


21 


who feign sleep, but ure ever wakeful ; — you have come as 
a thief in the golden midnight, and the thing you seek is 
the life of Sigurd ! Yes — yes ! it is true. The spirit can- 
not lie. You must kill, you must steal I See how the 
blood drips, drop by drop, from the heart of Sigurd I And 
tile jewel you steal — ah, what a jewel ! — you shall not find 
such another in Norway 1 ” 

His excited voice sank by degrees to a plaintive and for^ 
lorn whisper, and dropping his torch with a gesture of de- 
spair on the ground, he looked at it burning, with an air of 
mournful and utter desolation. Profound!}^ touched, as he 
immediately understood the condition of his companion’s 
wandering wits, Errington spoke to him soothingly. 

“ You mistake me,” he said in gentle accents; “ I would 
not steal anything from 3^011, nor have I come to kill you. 
See,” and he held out his hand, “ I wouldn’t harm 3^ou for 
the world. I didn’t know this cave belonged to 3^00. For- 
give me for having entered it. I am going to rejoin my 
friends. Good-bye I ” 

The strange, half-crazy creature touched his outstretched 
hand timidly, and with a sort of appeal. 

“ Good-bye, good-bye I ” he muttered. “ That is what 
they all say, — even the dead, — good-bye ; but they never 
go — never, never I You cannot be different to the rest. 
And you do not wish to hurt poor Sigurd ? ” 

“ Certainly not, if you are Sigurd,” said Philip, half 
laughing ; “ I should be very sorry to hurt you.” 

“You are sure‘s ” he persisted, with a sort of obstinate 
eagerness. “You have e3^es which tell truths; but there 
other things which are truer than eyes — things in the air, 
in the grass, in the waves, and they talk very strangely of 
you. 1 know you, of course ! I knew you ages ago — 
long before I saw you dead on the field of battle, and 
the black-haired Valkyrie galloped with you to Val- 
halla I Yes; I knew 3^011 long before that, and you knew 
me ; for I was your King, and you were my vassal, wild 
and rebellious — not the proud, rich Englishman you are 
to-day.” 

Errington started. How could this Sigurd, as he called 
himself, be aware of either his wealth or nationality ? 

The dwarf observed his movement of surprise with a 
cunning smile. 

“ Sigurd is wise, — Sigurd is brave 1 Who shall deceive 
him ? He knows you well ; he will always know you. The 


22 


THELMA. 


old gods teach Sigurd all his wisdom — the gods of the sea 
and the wind — the sleepy gods that lie in the hearts of the 
flowers — the small spirits that sit in shells and sing all day 
and all night.” He paused, and his eyes filled with a wish 
ful look of attention. He drew closer. 

“ Come,” he said earnestly, “ come, you must listen to 
my music ; perhaps you can tell me what it means.” 

He picked up his smouldering torch and held it aloft 
again ; then, beckoning Errington to follow him, he led the 
way to a small grotto, cut deeply into the wall of the 
cavern. Here there were no shell patterns. Little green 
ferns grew* thickly out of the stone crevices, and a minute 
runlet of water trickled slowly down from above, freshen- 
ing the delicate frondage as it fell. W ith quick, agile fingers 
he removed a loose stone from this aperture, and as he did 
so, a low shuddering wail resounded through the arches — a 
melancholy moan that rose and sank, and rose again in 
weird, sorrowful minor echoes. 

“ Hear her,” murmured Sigurd plaintively. ‘‘ She is al- 
ways complaining ; it is a pity she cannot rest I She is a 
spirit, you know. I have often asked her what troubles 
her, but she will not tell me ; she only weeps 1 ” 

His companion looked at him compassionately. The 
sound that so affected his disordered imagination was noth- 
ing but the wind blowing through the narrow hole formed 
by the removal of the stone ; but it was useless to explain 
this simple fact to one in his condition. 

“ Tell me,” and Sir Philip spoke very gently, “ is this 
your home ? ” 

The dwarf surveyed him almost scornfully. “ My home ! ” 
he echoed. “ My home is everywhere — on the mountains, 
in the forests, on the black rocks and barren shores 1 My 
soul lives between the sun and the sea ; my heart is with 
Thelma 1 ” 

Thelma I Here was perhaps a clue to the mystery. 

“Who is Thelma?” asked Errington somewhat hurri- 
edly. 

Sigurd broke into violent and derisive laughter. “ Do 
you think I will tell you ? ” he cried loudly. “ Pom,— one 
of that strong, cruel race who must conquer all they see ; 
who covet everything fair under heaven, and will buy it, 
even at the cost of blood and tears I Do you think I will 
unlock the door of my treasure to you ? No, no ; besides,” 


The land oP the Midnight sun. ^3 

and his voice sank lower, “ what should you do with Thelma ? 
She is dead I ” 

And, as if possessed by a sudden access of frenzy, he 
brandished his pine-torch wildly above his head till it show- 
ered a rain of bright sparks above him, and exclaimed furi- 
ously — 

“ Away, away, and trouble me not 1 The days are not 
yet fulfilled, — the time is not yet ripe. Why seek to hasten 
my end ? Away, away, I tell you I Leave me in peace I 
I will die when Thelma bids me ; but not. till then 1 ” 

And he rushed down the long gallery and disappeared in 
the furthest chamber, where he gave vent to a sort of long, 
sobbing cry, which rang dolefully through the cavern and 
then subsided into utter silence. 

Feeling as if he were in a chaotic dream, Errington pur- 
sued his interrupted course through the winding passages 
with a bewildered and wondering mind. What strange 
place had he inadvertently lighted on ? and who were the 
still stranger beings in connection with it ? First the beau- 
tiful girl herself ; next the mysterious coffin, hidden in its 
fanciful shell temple ; and now this deformed madman, with 
the pale face and fine eyes ; whose utterances, though in- 
coherent, savored somewhat of poesy and prophecy. And 
what spell was attached to that name of Thelma ? The 
more he thought of his morning’s adventure, the more puz- 
zled he became. As a rule, he believed more in the com- 
monplace than in the romantic — most people do. But 
truth to tell, romance is far more common than the com- 
monplace. There are few who have not, at one time or 
other of their lives, had some strange or tragic episode 
woven into the tissue of their every-day existence ; and it 
would be difficult to find one person even among humdrum 
individuals, who, from birth to death, has experienced noth- 
ing out of the common. 

Errington generally dismissed all tales of adventure as 
mere exaggerations of heated fancy ; and, had he read in 
some book, of a respectable nineteenth-century yachtsman 
having such an interview with a madman in a sea-cavern, 
he would have laughed at the affair as an utter improb- 
ability, though he could not have explained why he con- 
sidered it improbable. But now it had occurred to him- 
self, he was both surprised and amused at the whole cir- 
cumstance ; moreover, he was sufficiently interested and 
curious to be desirous of sifting the matter to its foundation. 


THELMA. 




It was, however, somewhat of a relief to him when he 
again reached the outer cavern. He replaced the lamp on 
the shelf where he had found it, and stepped once more 
into the brilliant light of the very early dawn, which then 
had all the splendor of full morning. There was a deli- 
ciously balmy wind, the blue sky was musical with a 
chorus of larks, and every breath of air that waved aside 
the long grass sent forth a thousand odors from hidden 
beds of wild thyme and bog-myrtle. 

He perceived the Ealalie at anchor in her old place on 
the Fjord ; she had returned while he was absent on his 
explorations. Gathering together his rug and painting 
materials, he blew a whistle sharply three times ; he was 
answered from the yacht, and presently a boat, manned 
by a couple of sailors, came skimming over the water to- 
wards him. It soon reached the shore, and, entering it, he 
was speedily rowed away from the scene of his morning’s 
experience back to his floating palace, where, as yet, none 
of his friends were stirring. 

“ How about Jedke?” he inquired of one of his meru 
“ Hid they climb it ? ” 

A slow grin overspread the sailor’s brown face. 

“ Lord bless you, no, sir! Mr. Lorimer, he just looked 
at it and sat down in the shade ; the other gentleman played 
pitch-and-toss with pebbles. They was main hungry too, 
and ate a mighty sight of ’am and pickles. Then they came 
on board and all turned in at once.” 

Errington laughed. He was amused at the utter failure 
of Lorimer’s recent sudden energy, but not su. prised. 
His thoughts were, however, busied with something else, 
and he next asked — 

“ Where’s our pilot ? ” 

“ Yaldemar Svensen, sir ? He went down to his bunk as 
soon as we anchored, for a snooze, he said.” 

“All right. If he comes on deck before I do, just tell 
him not to go ashore for anything till I see him. I want 
to speak to him after breakfast.” 

“ Ay, ay, sir.” 

Whereupon Sir Philip descended to his private cabin. 
He drew the blind at the port-hole to shut out the dazzling 
sunlight, for it was nearly three o’clock in the morning, 
and quickly undressing, he flung himself into his berth 
with a slight, not altogether unpleasant, feeling of exhaus- 
tion. To the last, as his eyes closed drowsily, he seemed 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


25 


to hear the slow drip, drip of the water behind the rocky 
cavern, and tlie desolate cry of the incomprehensible 
Sigurd, while through these sounds that mingled with the 
gurgle of little waves lapping against the sides of the 
Eulalie, the name of. “ Thelma ” murmured itself in his 
ears till slumber drowned his senses in oblivion. 


CHAPTER III. 

“Hast any mortal name, 

Fit appellation for this dazzling frame, 

Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth? 

Keats. 

“ This is positively absurd,” murmured Lorimer, in 
mildly injured tones, seven hours later, as he sat on the 
edge of his berth, surveying Errington, who, fully dressed 
and in the highest spirits, had burst in to upbraid him for 
his laziness while he was 3 'et but scantily attired. “ 1 tell 
you, my good fellow, there are some things which the ut- 
most stretch of friendship will not stand. Here am I in 
shirt and trousers with only one sock on, and you dare to 
say you have had an adventure 1 Why, if you had cut a 
piece out of the sun, you ought to wait till a man is shaved 
before mentioning it.” 

“ Don’t be snappish, old boy I ” laughed Errington gaily. 
“ Put on that other sock and listen. I don’t want to tell 
those other fellows just yet, they might go making in- 
quiries about her ” 

“ Oh, there is a ‘ her ’ in the case, is there?” said Lor- 
imer, opening his eyes rather widely. “Well, Phil! I 
thought you had had enough, and something too much, of 
women.” 

“ This is not a woman ! ” declared Philip with heat and 
eagerness, “ at least not the sort of woman I have ever 
known I This is a forest-empress, sea-goddess, or sun- 
angel ! I don’t know what she is, upon my life! ” 

Lorimer regarded him with an air of reproachful offense. 

“ Don’t go on — please don’t I ” he implored. “ I can’t 
stand it — I really can’t I Incipient verse-mania is too 
much for me. Forest-empress, sea-goddess, sun-angel — by 
Jove! what next? You are evidently in a very bad way. 
If I remember rightly, you had a flask of that old green 
Chartreuse with you. Ah! that accounts for it! Nice 
stuff, but a little too strong,” 


fBiELMA. 


ge 


Errington laughed, and, unabashed by his friend^s rail- 
lery, proceeded to relate with much vivacity and graphic 
fervor the occurrences of the morning. Lorimer listened 
patiently with a forbearing smile on his open, ruddy coun- 
tenance. When he had heard everything he looked up and 
inquired calmly — 

“ This is not a yarn, is it ? ” 

“A yarn!” exclaimed Philip. “ Do you think I would 
invent such a thing ? ” 

“ Can’t say,” returned Lorimer imperturbably. “ You 
are quite capable of it. It’s a very creditable crammer, 
due to Chartreuse. Might have been designed by Victor 
Hugo; it’s in his style. Scene, Norway — midnight. Mys- 
terious maiden steals out of a cave and glides away in a 
boat over the water ; man, the hero, goes into cave, finds a 
stone coffin, says — ‘ Qu’est-ce que c’est ? Dieu I C’est la 
mort I ’ Spectacle affreux 1 Staggers back perspiring ; 
meets mad dwarf with torch ; mad dwarf talks a good deal 
— mad people always do, — then yells and runs away. Man 
comes out of cave and — and — goes home to astonish his 
friends ; one of them won’t be astonished, — that’s me I ” 

“ I don’t care,” said Errington. “ It’s a true story for 
all that. Only, I say, don’t talk of it before the others ; 
let’s keep our own counsel ” 

“No poachers allowed on the Sun-Angel Manor I ” inter- 
rupted Lorimer gravely. Philip went on without heeding 
him. 

“ I’ll question Yaldemar Svensen after breakfast. He 
knows everybody about here. Come and have a smoke on 
deck when I give you the sign, and we’ll cross-examine 
him.” 

Lorimer still looked incredulous. “ What’s the good of 
it ? ” he inquired languidly. “ Even if it’s all true you had 
much better leave this goddess, or whatever you call her, 
alone, especially if she has any mad connections. What do 
you want with her ? ” 

“ Nothing I ” declared Errington, though his color height- 
ened. “ Nothing, I assure you I It’s just a matter of curi- 
osity with me. I should like to know who she is — that’s 
all ! The affair won’t go any further.” 

“ How do you know ? ” and Lorimer began to brush his 
stiff curly hair with a sort of vicious vigor. “ How can you 
tell ? I’m not a spiritualist, nor any sort of a humbug at 
all, I hope, but I sometimes indulge in presentiments. Be- 


TEE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. OT 

fore we started on this cruise, I was haunted By that dismal 
old ballad of Sir Patrick Spens — 

‘The King’s daughter of Norroway 
’Tis thou maun bring her hame ! ’ 

And here you have found her, or so it appears. What’s to 
come of it, I wonder ? ” 

“ Nothing’s to come of it ; nothing will come of it 1 ” 
laughed Philip. “ As I told you, she said she was a peas- 
ant. There’s the breakfast-bell ! Make haste, old boy, I’m 
as hungry as a hunter I ” 

And he left his friend to finish dressing, and entered the 
saloon, where he greeted his two other companions, Alec, 
or, as he was oftener called, Sandy Macfarlane, and Pierre 
Duprez ; the former an Oxford student, — the latter a young 
fellow whose acquaintance he had made in Paris, and with 
whom he had kept up a constant and friendly intercourse. 
A greater contrast than these two presented could scarcely 
be imagined. Macfarlane was tall and ungainly, with large 
loose joints that seemed to protrude angularly out of him 
in every direction, — Duprez was short, slight and wiry, 
with a clapper and by no means ungraceful figure. The one 
had formal gauche manners, a never-to-be-eradicated Glas- 
gow accent, and a slow, infinitely tedious method of ex- 
pressing himself, — the other was full of restless movement 
and pantomimic gesture, and being proud of his English, 
plunged into that language recklessly, making it curiously 
light and flippant, though picturesque, as he went. Mac- 
farlane was clestined to become a shining light of the estab- 
lished Church of Scotland, and therefore took life very se- 
riously, — Duprez was the spoilt only child of an eminent. 
French banker, and had very little to do but enjoy himself,, 
and that he did most thoroughly, without any calculation 
or care for the future. On all points of taste and opinion 
they differed widely ; but there was no doubt about their 
both being good-hearted fellows, without any affectation of 
abnormal vice or virtue. 

“ So you did not climb Jedke after all ! ” remarked Er~ 
rington laughingly, as they seated themselves at the break- 
fast table. 

“ My friend, what would you I ” cried Duprez. “ I have 
not said that I will climb it ; no I I never say that I will da 
anything, because I’m not sure of myself. How can I be ? 
It is that cher enfant^ Lorimer, that said such brave words f 


TBELMA. 


Seel . . . we arrive ; we behold the shore — all black, great, 
vast I . . . rocks like needles, and, higher than all, this 
most fierce Jedke — bah I what a name I — straight as the 
spire of a cathedral. One must be a fly to crawl up it, and 
we, we are not flies — ma foi ! no ! Lorimer, he laugh, he 
yawn — so ! He sa}^, ‘ not for me to-day ; I very much thank 
you ! ’ And then, we watch the sun. Ah ! that was grand, 
glorious, beautiful ! ” And Duprez kissed the tips of his 
fingers in ecstacy. 

“ What did you think about it, Sandy ? ” asked Sir Philip. 

“ I didna think much,” responded Macfarlane, shortly. 

“ It’s no sae grand a sight as a sunset in Skye. And it’s 
an uncanny business to see the sun losin’ a’ his poonctooal- 
ity, and remainin’ stock still, as it were, when it’s his plain 
duty to set below the horizon. MyseP, I think it’s been 
fair over-rated. It’s unnatural an’ oot o’ the common, say 
what ye like.” 

“ Of course it is,” agreed Lorimer, who just then saun- 
tered in from his cabin. “ Nature is most unnatural. I 
always thought so. Tea for me, Phil, please ; coffee wakes 
me up too suddenly. I say, what’s the programme to-day ? ” 

“ Fishing in the Alten,” answered Errington promptly. 

“ That suits me perfectly,” said Lorimer, as he leisurely 
sipped his tea. “ I’m an excellent fisher. I hold the line 
and generally forget to bait it. Then, — while it trails harm- 
lessly in the water, I doze : thus both the fish and I are 
happy.” 

“ And this evening,” went on Errington, “ we must return 
the minister’s call. He’s been to the yacht twice. We’re 
bound to go out of common politeness.” 

“ Si)are us, good Lord ! ” groaned Lorimer. 

“ What a delightfully fat man is that good religious 1 ” 
cried Duprez. “ A living proof of the healthiness of Nor- 
way ! ” 

“ He’s not a native,” put in Macfarlane ; “ he’s frae’ ' 
Yorkshire. He’s only been a matter of three months here, 
filling the place o’ the settled meenister who’s awa’ for a 
change of air.” 

“ He’s a precious specimen of a humbug, anyhow,” sighed 
Lorimer drearily. “ However, I’ll be civil to him as long as 
he doesn’t ask me to hear him preach. At that suggestion 
I’ll fight him. He’s soft enough to bruise easily.” 

“ Ye’re just too lazy to fight onybody,” declared Macfar- 
lane, 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


29 


Lorimer smiled sweetly. “ Thanks, awfully 1 I dare 
Bay you’re right. I’ve never found it worth while as yet to 
exert myself in any particular direction. No one has asked 
me to exert myself; no one wants me to exert myself; 
therefore, why should I ? ” 

“ Don’t ye want to get on in the world ? ” asked Macfar- 
lane, almost brusquely. 

“Dear me, no! What an exhausting idea ! Get on in 
the world — what for ? I have five hundred a year, and 
when my mother goes over to the majority (long distant be 
that day, for I’m very fond of the dear old lady), I shall 
have five thousand — more than enough to satisfy any sane 
man who doesn’t want to speculate on the Stock Exchange. 
You?' case, my good Mac, is diflerent. You will be a cele- 
brated Scotch divine. You will preach to a crowd of pious 
numskulls about predestination, and so forth. You will be 
stump-orator for the securing of seats in paradise. Now, 
now, keep calm I — don't mind me. It’s only a figure of 
speech I And the numskulls will call you a ‘ rare powerfu’ 
rousin’ preacher’ — isn’t that the w'ay they goon? and when 
you die — for die you must, most unfortunatel}' — they w ill 
give you a three-cornered block of granite (if they can make 
up their minds to part wuth the necessary bawbees) w ith 
your name prettily engraved thereon. That’s all very 
nice ; it suits some people. It wouldn’t suit me.” 

“What would suit you?” queried Errington. “You 
find everything more or less of a bore.” 

“ Ah, my good little boy ! ” broke in Duprez. “ Paris is 
the place for you. You should live in Paris. Of that 3 011 
w'ould never fatigue yourself.” 

“ Too much absinthe, secret murder and suicidal mania,” 
returned Lorimer, meditativel3\ “ That was a neat idea 
about the coffins though. I never hoped to dine oft* a 
coffin.” 

“Ah! 3^011 mean the Taverne de I’Enfer?” exclaimed 
Duprez. “ Yes ; the divine waitresses wore winding sheets, 
and the wune was served in imitation skulls. Excellent ! I 
remember ; the tables w^ere shaped like coffins.” 

“ Glide Lord Almight3' ! ” piously murmured Macfarlane. 
“ What a fearsome sicht ! ” 

As he pronounced these words with an unusually marked 
accent, Duprez looked inquiring. 

“ What does our Macfarlane sa3^ ? ” 

“ He says it must have been a ‘ fearsome sicht/ ” ro- 


30 


THELMA. 


peated Lorimer, with even a stronger accent than Sanby’s 
own, “ which, mon cher Pierre, means all the horrors in 
your language; affreux^ epouvantable^ navrant — anything 
you like, that is sufficiently terrible.’’ 

“ Mais^ jjoint du tout! ” cried Duprfez energetically. “ It 
was charming ! It made us laugh at death — so much bet- 
ter than to cry ! And there was a delicious child in a wind- 
ing-sheet ; brown curls, laugliing eyes and little mouth ; ha, 
ha ! but she was well worth kissing ! ” 

“ I’d rather follow ma own funeral, than kiss a lass in a 
winding-sheet,” said Sandy, in solemn and horrified tones. 
“ It’s just awfu’ to think on.” 

“ But, see, my friend,” persisted Duprez, “ you would not 
be permitted to follow your own funeral, not possible, — 
voila J Your are permitted to kiss the pretty one in the 
winding-sheet. It is* possible. Behold the difference ! ” 

“ Never mind the Taverne de I’Enfer just now,” said 
Errington, who had finished his breakfast hurriedly. “ It’s 
time for you fellows to get your fishing toggery on. I’m 
off to speak to the pilot.” 

And away he went, followed more slowly by Lorimer, 
who, though he pretended indifference, was rather curious 
to know more, if possible, concerning his friend’s adven- 
ture of the morning. They found the pilot, Valdemar 
Svensen, leaning at his ease against the idle wheel, with his 
face turned towards the eastern sky. He was a stalwart 
specimen of Norse manhood, tall and strongly built, with 
thoughtful, dignified features, and keen, clear hazel eyes. 
His chestnut hair, plentifully sprinkled with gray, clustered 
thickly over a broad brow, that was deeply furrowed with 
many a line of anxious and speculative thought, and the 
forcible brown hand that rested lightly on the spokes of the 
wheel, told its own tale of hard and honest labor. Neither 
wife nor child, nor living relative had Yaldemar ; the one 
passion of his heart was the sea. Sir Philip Errington had 
engaged him at Christiansund, hearing of him there as a 
man to whom the intricacies of the Fjords, and the dangers 
of rock-bound coasts, were more familiar than a straight 
road on dry lake, and since then the management of the 
Eulalie had been entirely entrusted to him. Though an 
eminently practical sailor, he was half a mystic, and be- 
lieved in the wildest legends of his land with more implicit 
faith than many so-called Christians believe in their sacred 
doctrines. He doffed his red cap respectfully now as Ep 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


31 


rington and Lorimer approached, smilingly wishing them" 
“ a fair day.” Sir Philip offered him a cigar, and, coming 
to the point at once, asked abruptly — 

“ I say, Svensen, are there any pretty girls in Bosekop ? ” 

The pilot drew the newly lit cigar from his mouth, and 
passed his rough hand across his forehead in a sort of grave 
perplexity. 

“ It is a matter in which I am foolish,” he said at last, 
“ for my ways have always gone far from the ways of 

women. Girls there are plenty, I suppose, but ” he 

mused with pondering patience for awhile. Then a broad 
smile broke like sunshine over his embrowned counte- 
nance, as he continued, “ Now, gentlemen, I do remember 
well ; it is said that at Bosekop yonder, are to be found 
some of the homeliest wenches in all Norway.” 

Errington’s face fell at this reply. Lorimer t urned away 
to hide the mischievous smile that came on his lips at his 
friend’s discomfiture. 

“ I know it was that Chartreuse,” he thought to him- 
self. That and the midnight sun-effects. Nothing 
else I ” 

“ What I ” went on Philip. “No good-looking girls at all 
about here, eh ? ” 

Svensen shook his head, still smilingl3^ 

“ Not at Bosekop, sir, that I ever heard of.” 

“ I say ! ” broke in Lorimer, “ are there any old tombs 
or sea-caves, or places of that sort close by, worth explor- 
ing ? ” 

Valdemar Svensen answered this question readily, almost 
eagerly. 

“ No, sir I There are no antiquities of any sort ; and as 
for caves, there are plenty, but only the natural formations 
of the sea, and none of these are curious or beautiful on this 
side of the Fjord.” 

Lorimer poked his friend secretly in the ribs. 

“ You’ve been dreaming, old fellow I ” he whispered slyly. 
“ I knew it was a crammer ! ” 

Errington shook him off good-humoredly. 

“ Can you tell me,” he said, addressing Valdemar again in 
distinct accents, “ whether there is any place, person, or 
thing near here called Thelma ? ” 

The pilot started ; a look of astonishment and fear came 
into his eyes ; his hand went instinctively to his red cap, as 
though in deference to the name, 


32 


THELMA. 


“ The Froken Thelma I ” he exclaimed, in low tones. “ Is 
it possible that 3^011 have seen her ? ” 

“ Ah, George, what do yon sa^’^ now ? ” cried Errington 
delightedly. “ Yes, 3’^es, Yaldemar ; the Froken Thelma, as 
you call her. Who is she ? . . . What is she ? — and how 
can there be no pretty girls in Bosekop if such a beautiful 
creature as she lives there ? ” 

Yaldemar looked troubled and vexed. 

“ Truly, I thought not of the maiden,” he said gravely. 

“ ’Tis not for me to speak of the daughter of Olaf,” here 
his voice sank a little, and his face grew more and more 
sombre. “ Pardon me, sir, but how did 3^011 meet her ? ” 

“ By accident,” replied Errington promptl3", not caring to 
relate his morning’s adventure for the pilot’s benefit. “ Is 
she some great personage here ? ” 

Svensen sighed, and smiled somewhat dubiously. 

“ Great ? Oh, no ; not what 3'ou would call great. Her 
father, Olaf Giildmar, is a bonde ^ — that is, a farmer in his own 
right. He has a goodly house, and a few fair acres well 
planted and tilled, — also he pa3's his men freel3^, — but those 
that work for him are all he sees, — neither he nor his daugh- 
ter ever visit the town. They dwell apart, and have noth- 
ing in common with their neighbors.” 

“ And where do they live ? ” asked Lorimer, becoming as 
interested as he had formerly been incredulous. 

The pilot leaned lightly over the rail of the deck and 
pointed towards the west. 

“ You see that great rock shaped like a giant’s helmet, 
and behind it a high green knoll, clustered thick with birch 
and pine ? ” 

They nodded assent. 

“ At the side of the knoll is the honde's house, a good 
eight-mile walk from the outskirts of Bosekop. Should 3^011 
ever seek to rest there, gentlemen,” and Svensen spoke with 
quiet resolution, “ I doubt whether 3^011 will receive a 
pleasant welcome.” 

And he looked at them both with an inquisitive air, as 
though seeking to discover their intentions. 

“ Is that so ? ” drawled Lorimer lazily, giving his friend 
an expressive nudge. “ Ah ! We shant trouble them ! 
Thanks for your information, Yaldemar I We don’t intend 
to hunt up the — what d’ye call him ? — the honde, if he’s at 
all surly. Hospitality that gives you greeting and a dinner 
for nothing, — that’s what suits 


THE LAND OF THE 3IIDNIGHT SUN 


33 


“ Our people are not without hospitality,” said the pilot, 
with a touch of wistful and appealing dignity. “ All along 
your journey, gentlemen, you have been welcomed gladly, 
as you know. But Olaf Giildmar is not like the rest of us ; 
he has the pride and fierceness of olden days ; his- manners 
and customs are different ; and few like him. He is much 
feared.” 

“ You know him then ?” inquired Errington carelessly. 

“ I know him,” returned Yaldemar quietly. “And his 
daughter is fair as the sun and the sea. But it is not my 

place to speak of them .” He broke off', and after a 

slightly embarrassed pause, asked, “ Will the Herren wish 
to sail to-day ? ” 

“No Yaldemar,” answered Errington indifferently. “ Not 
till to-morrow, when we’ll visit the Kaa Fjord if the weather 
keeps fair.” 

“Yery good, sir,” and the pilot, tacitly avoiding any 
further converse with his employer respecting the myste- 
rious Thelma and her equally mysterious father, turned to 
examine the wheel and compass as though something there 
needed his earnest attention. Errington and Lorimer 
strolled up and down the polished white deck arm-in-arm, 
talking in low tones. 

“ You didn’t ask him about the coffin and the dwarf,” 
said Lorimer. 

“ No ; because I believe he knows nothing of either, and 
it would be news to him which I’m not bound to give. If 
I can manage to see the girl again the mystery of the cave 
may explain itself.” 

“ Well, what are you going to do ? ” 

Errington looked meditative. “ Nothing at present. 
We’ll go fishing with the others. But, I tell you what, if 
you’re up to it, we’ll leave Duprez and Macfarlane at the 
minister’s house this evening and tell them to wait for us 
there, — once they all begin to chatter they never know how 
time goes. Meanwhile you and I will take the boat and 
row over in search of this farmer’s abode. I believe there’s 
a short cut to it by water ; at any rate I know the way she 
went.” 

“ ‘ I know the way she went home with her maiden 
posy 1 ’ ” quoted Lorimer, with a laugh. “ You are hit 
Phil, ‘ a very palpable hit ’1 Who would have thought it I 
Clara Winsleigh needn’t poison her husband after all in 


34 


THELMA. 


order to marry you, for nothing but a sun-empress will suit 
you now.” 

“ Don’t be a fool, George,” said Errington, half vexedly, 
as the hot color mounted to his face in spite of himself. “It 
is all idle curiosity, nothing else. After what Svensen told 
us, I’m quite as anxious to see this gruff old honde as his 
daughter.” 

Lorimer held up a reproachful finger. “ Now, Phil, 
don’t stoop to duplicity — not with me, at any rate. Why 
disguise your feelings? Why, as the tragedians say, en- 
deavor to crush the noblest and best emotions that ever 
warm the boo-zum of man ? Chivalrous sentiment and ad- 
miration for beauty, — chivalrous desire to pursue it and catch 
it and call it your own, — I understand it all, my dear boy ! 
But my prophetic soul tells me you will have to strangle the 
excellent Olaf Giildmar — heavens I what a name I — before 
you will be allowed to make love to his fair chee-ild. Then 
don’t forget the madman with the torch, — he may turn up 
in the most unexpected fashion and give you no end of 
trouble. But, by Jove, it is a romantic affair, positively 
quite stagey I Something will come of it, serious or comic. 
I wonder which ? ” 

Errington laughed, but said nothing in reply, as their 
two companions ascended from the cabin at that moment, 
in full attire for the fishing expedition, followed by the 
steward bearing a large basket of provisions for luncheon, — 
and all private conversation came to an end. Hastening 
the rest of their preparations, within twenty minutes they 
were skimming across the Fjord in a long boat manned by 
four sailors, who rowed with a will and sent the light 
craft scudding through the water with the swiftness of an 
arrow. Landing, they climbed the dewy hills spangled 
thick with forget-me-nots and late violets, till they reached 
a shady and secluded part of the river, where, surrounded 
by the songs of hundreds of sweet-throated birds, they com- 
menced their sport, which kept them well employed till a 
late hour in the afternoou. 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT BUN, 


35 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ Thou art violently carried away from grace ; there is a devil 
haunts thee in the likeness of a fat old man, — a tan of man is thy 
companion.” Shakespeare. 

The Reverend Charles Dyceworthy sat alone in the small 
dining-room of his house at Bosekop, finishing a late tea, 
and disposing of round after round of hot buttered toast 
with that suave alacrity he always displayed in the con- 
sumption of succulent eatables. He was a largely made 
man, very much on the wrong side of fifty, with accumula- 
tions of unwholesome fat on every available portion of his 
body. His round face was cleanly shaven and shiny, as 
though its flabby surface were frequently polished with some 
sort of luminous grease instead of the customary soap. His 
mouth was absurdly small and pursy for so broad a counte- 
nance, — his nose seemed endeavoring to retreat behind his 
puffy cheeks as though painfully aware of its own insignifi- 
cance, — and he had little, sharp, ferret-like eyes of a dull 
mahogany brown, which were utterly destitute of even the 
faintest attempt at an}^ actual expression. They were more 
like glass beads than eyes, and glittered under their scanty 
fringe of pale-colored lashes with a sort of shallow cunning 
which might mean malice or good-humor, — no one looking 
at them could precisely determine which. His hair was of 
an indefinite shade, neither light nor dark, som^ewhat of the 
tinge of a dusty potato before it is washed clean. It was 
neatly brushed and parted in the middle with mathematical 
precision, while from the back of his head it was brought 
forward in two projections, one on each side, like budding 
wings behind his ears. It was impossible for the most fas- 
tidious critic to find fault with the Reverend Mr. Dyce- 
worthy’s hands. He had beautiful hands, white, soft, 
plump and well-shaped, — his delicate filbert nails were 
trimmed with punctilious care, and shone with a pink lustre 
that was positively charming. He was evidently an amia- 
ble man, for he smiled to himself over his tea, — he had a 
trick of smiling, — ill-natured people said he did it on pur- 
pose, in order to widen his mouth and make it more in pi’O 


36 


THELMA. 


portion to the size of his face. Such remarks, however, 
emanated only from the spiteful and envious who could not 
succeed in winning the social popularity that everywhere 
attended Mr. Dj^ceworthy’s movements. For he was un- 
doubtedly popular, — no one could deny that. In the small 
Yorkshire town where he usually had his abode, he came 
little short of being adored by the women of his own partic- 
ular sect, who crowded to listen to his fervent discourses, 
and came away from them on the verge of hysteria, so pro- 
foundly moved were their sensitive souls by his damnatory 
doctrines. The men were more reluctant in their admira- 
tion, yet even they were always ready to admit “ that he 
was an excellent fellow, with his heart in the right place.” 

He had a convenient way of getting ill at the proper 
seasons, and of requiring immediate change of air, where- 
upon his grateful flock were ready and willing to subscribe 
the mone}^ necessary for their beloved preacher to take re- 
pose and relaxation in any part of the w^orld he chose. 
This year, however, they had not been asked to furpish the 
usual funds for travelling expenses, for the resident minis- 
ter of Bosekop, a frail, gentle old man, had been seriously 
prostrated during the past winter with an affection of the 
lungs, which necessitated his going to a different climate 
for change and rest. Knowing Dycew^orthy as a zealous 
member of the Lutheran persuasion, and, moreover, as one 
who had in his youth lived for some years in Christiania, 
— thereby gaining a knowledge of the Norwegian tongue, 
— he invited him to take his place for his enforced time of 
absence, offering him his house, his servants, his pony-car- 
riage and an agreeable pecuniary douceur in exchange for 
his services, — proposals which the Reverend Charles eagerly 
accepted. Though Norway was not exactly new to him, 
the region of the Alten Fjord was, and he at once felt, 
though he knew not wliy, that the air there would be the 
very thing to benefit his delicate constitution. Besides, it 
looked well for at least one occasion, to go away for the 
summer without asking him congregation to pay for his 
trip. It was generous on his part, almost noble. 

The ladies of his flock wept at his departure and made 
him socks, comforters, slippers, and other consoling gear of 
the like description to recall their sweet memories to his 
saintly mind during his absence from their society. But, 
truth to tell, Mr. Dyceworthy gave little thought to these 
fond and regretful fair ones ; he was much too comfortable 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


37 


at Bosekop to look back with any emotional yearning to tlie 
precise little provincial town he had left behind him. 
The minister’s quaint, pretty house suited him perfectly ; 
the minister’s servants were most punctual in their services; 
the minister’s phaeton conveniently held his cumbrous per- 
son, and the minister’s pony was a quiet beast, that trotted 
good-temperedly wherever it w^as guided, and shied at 
nothing. Yes, he was thoroughly comfortable, — as com- 
fortable as a truly pious fat man deserves to be, and all the 
work he had to do was to preach twice on Sundays, to a 
quiet, primitive, decently ordered congregation, who lis- 
tened to his words respectfully though without displacing 
any emotional rapture. Their stolidity, however, did not 
affect him, — he preached to please himself, — loving above 
all things to hear the sound of his own voice, and never so 
happy as when thundering fierce denunciations against the 
Church of Rome. His thoughts seemed tending in that 
direction now, as he poured himself out his third cup of tea 
and smilingly shook his head over it, while he stirred the 
cream and sugar in, — for he took from his waistcoat pocket 
a small glittering object and laid it before him on the table, 
still shaking his head and smiling with a patient, yet re- 
proachful air of superior wisdom. It was a crucifix of 
mother-o’-pearl and silver, the symbol of the Christian faith. 
But it seemed to carry no sacred suggestions to the soul of 
Mr. Dyceworthy. On the contrary, he looked at it with an 
expression of meek ridicule, — ridicule that bordered on 
contempt. 

“ A Roman,” he murmured placidly to himself, between 
two large bites of toast. “ The girl is a Roman, and there- 
by hopelessly damned.” 

And he smiled again, — more sweetly than before, as 
though the idea of hopeless damnation suggested some 
peculiarly agreeable refiections. Unfolding his fine cologne- 
scented cambric handkerchief, he carefull}^ wiped his fat 
white fingers free from the greasy marks of the toast, and, 
taking up the objectionable cross gingerly, as though it 
were red-hot, he examined it closely on all sides. There 
were some words engraved on the back of it, and after some 
trouble Mr. Dyceworthy spelt them out. They were 
“ Passio Ghristi., conforta me. Thelma.'''^ 

He shook his head with a sort of resigned cheerfulness. 

“ Hopelessly damned,” he murmured again gently, “ un- 
)> 


less- 


38 


THELMA. 


What alternative suggested itself to his mind was not 
precisely apparent, for his thoughts suddenly turned in a 
more frivolous direction. Rising from the now exhausted 
tea-table, he drew out a small pocket-mirror and surveyed 
himself therein with a mild approval. With the extreme 
end of his handkerchief he tenderly removed two sacrile- 
gious crumbs that presumed to linger in the corners of his 
piously pursed mouth. In the same way he detached a 
morsel of congealed butter that clung pertinaciously to the 
end of his bashfully retreating nose. This done, he again 
looked at himself with increased satisfaction, and, putting 
by his pocket-mirror, rang the bell. It was answered at 
once by a tall, strongly built woman, with a colorless, stolid 
countenance, — that might have been carved out of wood for 
any expression it had in it. 

“ Ulrika,” said Mr. Dyceworthy blandly, “ you can clear 
the table.” 

Ulrika, without answering, began to pack the tea-things 
together in a methodical way, without clattering so much 
as a plate or spoon, and, piling them compactly on a tray, 
was about to leave the room, when Mr. Dyceworthy called 
to her, “ Ulrika I ” 

“ Sir ? ” 

“ Did you ever see a thing like this before ? ” and he held 
up the crucifix to her gaze. 

The woman shuddered, and her dull eyes lit up with a 
sudden terror. 

“ It is the witch’s charm I ” she muttered thickly, while 
her pale face grew yet paler. “ Burn it, sir I — burn it, and 
the power will leave her.” 

Mr. Dyceworthy laughed indulgently. “ My good 
woman, you mistake,” he said suavely. “ Your zeal for the 
true gospel leads you into error. There are thousands of 
misguided persons who worship such a thing as this. It is 
often all of our dear Lord they know. Sad, ver3^ sad I But 
still, though they, alas I are not of the elect, and are plainly 
doomed to perdition, — they are not precisely what are 
termed witches, Ulrika.” 

“ She is,” replied the woman with a sort of ferocity ; 
“ and, if I had my way, I would tell her so to her face, and see 
what would happen to her then 1 ” 

“ Tut, tut I ” remarked Mr. Dyceworthy amiably. “ The 
days of witchcraft are past. You show some little ignor- 


TEE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


ance, Ulrika. You are not acquainted with the great ad- 
vancement of recent learning.” 

“ Maybe, maybe,” and Ulrika turned to go; but she mut- 
tered sullenly as she went, “ There be them that know and 
could tell, and them that will have her yet.” 

She shut the door behind her with a sharp clang, and, 
left to himself, Mr. Dyceworthy again smiled — such a be- 
nignant, fatherly smile ! He then walked to the window 
and looked out. It was past seven o’clock, an hour that 
elsewhere would have been considered evening, but in 
Bosekop at that season it still seemed afternoon. 

The sun was shining brilliantly, and in the minister’s 
front garden the roses were all wide awake. A soft moisture 
glittered on every tiny leaf and blade of grass. The pene- 
trating and delicious odor of sweet violets scented each pulf 
of wind, and now and then the call of the cuckoo pierced 
the ail*' with a subdued, far-off shrillness. 

From his position Mr. D^^ceworthy could catch a glimpse 
through the trees of the principal thoroughfare of Bose- 
kop — a small, primitive street enough, of little low houses, 
which, though unpretending from without, were room}^ and 
comfortable within. The distant, cool sparkle of the waters 
of the Fjord, the refreshing breeze, the perfume of the 
flowers, and the satisfied impression left on his mind by 
recent tea and toast — all these things combined had a 
soo'ehing effect on Mr. P3meworth3^, and with a sigh of ab- 
solute comfort he settled his large person in a deep easy 
chair and composed himself for pious meditation. 

He meditated long, — with fast-closed eyes and open 
mouth, while the earnestness of his inward thoughts was 
clearly demonstrated now and then by an irrepressible, — 
almost triumphant, — cornet-blast from that trifling eleva- 
tion of his countenance called by courtes3" a nose, when his 
blissful reverie was suddenl3^ broken in upon by the sound 
of several footsteps crunching slowl3^ along the garden path, 
and, starting up from his chair, he perceived four individu- 
als clad in white flannel costumes and w^earing light straw 
hats trimmed with fluttering blue ribbons, who were leis- 
urely sauntering up to his door, and stopping occasionally 
to admire the flowers on their way. Mr. Dyceworthy’s face 
reddened visibly with excitement. 

“ The gentlemen from the 3mcht,” he murmured to him- 
self, hastily settling his collar and cravat, and pushing up 
his cherubic wings of hair more prominently behind his 


40 


THELMA. 


ears. “ I never thought they would come. Dear me I Sir 
Philip Errington himself, too I I must have refreshments 
instantly.” 

And he hurried from the room, calling his orders to 
Ulrika as he went, and before the visitors had time to ring, 
he had thrown open the door to them himself, and stood 
smiling urbanely on the threshold, welcoming them with 
enthusiasm, — and assuring Sir Philip especially how much 
honored he felt, by his thus visiting, familiarly and unan- 
nounced, his humble dwelling. Errington waved his many 
compliments good-humoredly aside, and allowed himself 
and his friends to be marshalled into the best parlor, the 
drawing-room of the house, a pretty little apartment whose 
window looked out upon a tangled yet graceful wilderness 
of flowers. 

“ 5^ice, cosy place this,” remarked Lorimer, as he seated 
himself negligently on the arm of the sofa. “ You must be 
pretty comfortable here ? ” 

Their perspiring and affable host rubbed his soft white 
bands together gently. 

‘ 1 thank Heaven it suits my simple needs,” he an- 
swered meekly. “ Luxuries do not become a poor servant 
of God.” 

‘ Ah, then your are different to many others who profess 
to serve the same Master,” said Duprfez with a sourire fin 
that had the devil’s own mockery in it. “ Monsieur le hon 
Dieu IS very impartial 1 Some serve Him by constant 
over feeding, others by constant over-starving ; it is all one 
10 Him apparently I How do you know which among His 
servants He likes best, the fat or the lean?” 

Sandy Macfarlane, though slightly a bigot for his own 
form of doctrine, broke into a low chuckle of irrepressible 
laughter at Dupr^z’s levity, but Mr. Dyce worthy ’s ffabby 
face betokened the utmost horror. 

‘‘ Sir ” he said gravely, “ there are subjects concerning 
which it IS not seemly to speak without due reverence. He 
knoweth His own elect. He hath chosen them out from the 
beginning He summoned forth from the million, the glor- 
ious apostle of reform, Martin Luther ” 

“ Le bon gaiLLard ! ” laughed Duprez. “ Tempted by a 
pretty nun I What man could resist I Myself, I would 
try to upset all the creeds of this world if I saw a pretty 
nun worth my trouble. Yes, truly I A pity though, that 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


41 


the poor Luther died of over-eating ; his exit from life was 
so undignified I ” 

“ Shut up, Duprez,” said Errington severely. “ You dis- 
please Mr. Dyce worthy by your fooling.” 

“ Oh, pray do not mention it. Sir Philip,” murmured the 
reverend gentleman with a mild patience. “We must ac- 
custom ourselves to hear with forbearance the opinions of 
ail men, howsoever contradictory, otherwise our vocation is 
of no avail. Yet is it sorely grievous to me to consider 
that there should be. any person or persons existent who 
lack the necessary faith requisite for the performance of 
God’s promises.” 

“Ye must understand, Mr. Dyceworthy,” said Macfar- 
lane in his slow, deliberate manner, “ that ye have before ye 
a young Frenchman who doesna believe in ony thing except 
himsel’ — and even as to whether he himsel’ is a mon or a 
myth, he has his doots — vera grave doots.” 

Duprez nodded delightedly. “ That is so ! ” he exclaimed. 
“ Our dear Sandy puts it so charmingly I To be a m3dh 
seems original, — to be a mere man, quite ordinaiy. I be- 
lieve it is possible to find some good scientific professor 
who would prove me to be a myth — the moving shadow of 
a dream — imagine I — how perfectly poetical I ” 

“ You talk too much to be a dream, m}^ boy,” laughed 
Errington, and turning to Mr. D^^ceworthy, he added, “ I’m 
afraid you must think us a shocking set. We are really 
none of us ver^" religious, I fear, though,” and he tried to 
look serious ; “ if it had not been for Mr. Lorimer, we 
should have come to church last Sunday. Mr. Lorimer 
was, unfortunately, rather indisposed.” 

“ Ya-as ! ” drawled that gentleman, turning from the lit- 
tle window where he had been gathering a rose for his but- 
ton-hole. “ I was knocked up ; had fits, and all that sort of 
thing ; took these three fellows all their time on Sunday to 
hold me down ! ” 

“ Dear me I ” and Mr. Dyceworth}^ was about to make 
further inquiries concerning Mr. Lorimer’s present state of 
health, when the door opened, and Ulrika entered, bearing 
a large tray laden with wine and other refreshments. As 
she set it down, she gave a keen, covert glance round the 
room, as though rapidly taking note of the appearance and 
faces of all the young men, then, with a sort of stiff' curt- 
sey, she departed as noiselessly as she had come, — not, 


42 


THELMA, 


however, without leaving a disagreeable impression on 
Errington’s mind. 

“ Rather a stem Phyllis, that waiting-maid of yours,” 
he remarked, watching his host, who was carefully drawing 
the cork from one of the bottles of wine. 

Mr. Dyceworthy smiled. “ Oh, no, no ! not stern at all,” 
he answered sweetly. “ On the contrary, most affable and 
kind-hearted. Her only fault is that she is a little zealous, 
— over-zealous for the purity of the faith ; and she has suf- 
fered much ; but she is an excellent woman, really excel- 
lent I Sir Philip, will you try this Lacrima Christi ? ” 

“ Lacrima Christi ! ” exclaimed Duprez. “ You do not 
surely get that in Norway ? ” 

“It seems strange, certainly,” replied Mr. Dyceworthy, 
“ but it is a fact that the Italian or Papist wines are often 
used here. The minister whose place I humbly endeavor 
to fill has his cellar stocked with them. The matter is easy 
of comprehension when once explained. The benighted 
inhabitants of Ital^^, a land lost in the darkness of error, 
still persist in their fasts, notwithstanding the evident folly 
of their ways — and the 'Norwegian sailors provide them 
with large quantities of fish for their idolatrous customs, 
bringing back their wines in exchange.” 

“ A very good idea,” said Lorimer, sipping the Lacrima 
with evident approval — “ Phil, I doubt if your brands on 
board the Eulalie are better than this.” 

“ Hardly so good,” replied Errington with some surprise, 
as he tasted the wine and noted its delicious flavor. “ The 
minister must be a fine connoisseur. Are there many other 
families about here, Mr. Dyceworthy, who know how to 
choose their wines so well ? ” 

Mr. Dyceworthy smiled with a dubious air. 

“ There is one other household that in the matter of 
choice liquids is almost profanely particular,” he said. 
“ But they are people who are ejected with good reason 
from respectable society, and, — it behooves me not to speak 
of their names.” 

“ Oh, indeed I ” said Errington, while a sudden and inex- 
plicable thrill of indignation fired his blood and sent it in a 

wave of color up to his forehead — “ May I ask ” 

But be was interrupted b}’^ Lorimer, who, nudging him 
slyly on one side, muttered, “ Keep cool, old fellow 1 You 
can’t tell whether he’s talking about the Giildmar folk I 


43 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 

Be quiet — ^you don’t want every one to know your little 
game.” 

Thus adjured, Philip swallowed a large gulp of wine, to 
keep down his feelings, and strove to appear interested in 
the habits and caprices of bees, a subject into which Mr. 
Dyceworthy had just inveigled Duprez and Macfarlane. 

“ Come and see my bees,” said the Reverend Charles al- 
most pathetically. “ They are emblems of ever-working 
and patient industry, — storing up honey for others to par- 
take thereof.” 

“ They wudna store it up at a’, perhaps, if they knew 
that,” observed Sandy significantly. 

Mr. Dyceworthy positively shone all over with benefi- 
cence. 

“ They would store it up, sir ; yes, they would, even if 
they knew. I It is God’s will that they should store it up; 
it is God’s will that they should show an example of unsel- 
fishness, that they should flit from flower to flower suck- 
ing therefrom the sweetness to impart into strange palates 
unlike their own. It is a beautiful lesson ; it teaches us 
who are the ministers of the Lord to likewise suck the 
sweetness from the flowers of the living gospel, and impart 
it gladly to the unbelievers who shall find it sweeter than 
the sweetest honey I ” 

And he shook his head piously several times, while the 
pores of his fat visage exuded holy oil. Duprez sniggered 
secretly. Macfarlane looked preternaturally solemn. 

“ Come,” repeated the reverend gentleman, with an in- 
viting smile. “ Come and see my bees, — also my straw- 
berries ! I shall be delighted to send a basket of the fruit 
to the yacht, if Sir Philip will permit me ? ” 

Errington expressed his thanks with due courtesy, and 
hastened to seize the opportunity that presented itself for 
breaking away from the party. 

“ If you will excuse us for twenty minutes or so, Mr. 
Dyceworthy,” he said, “ Lorimer and I want to consult a 
fellow here in Bosekop about some new fishing tackle. We 
shan’t be gone long. Mac, you and Duprez wait for us 
here. Don’t commit too many depredations on Mr. Dyce- 
worthy ’s strawberries.” 

The reason for their departure was so simply and nat- 
urally given, that it was accepted without any opposing 
remarks. Duprez was delighted to have the chance of 
amusing himself by harassing the Reverend Charles with 


44 


THELMA. 


open professions of utter atheism, and Macfarlane, who 
loved an argument more than he loved whiskey, looked for- 
ward to a sharp discussion presently concerning the super- 
iority of John Knox, morally and physically, over Martin 
Luther. So that when the others went their way, their de- 
parture excited no suspicion in the minds of their friends, 
and most unsuspecting of all was the placid Mr. Dyce- 
worthy, who, had he imagined for an instant the direction 
which they were going, would certainly not have dis- 
coursed on the pleasures of bee-keeping with the calmness 
and placid conviction, that alwa3^s distinguished him when 
holding forth on any subject that was attractive to his 
mind. Leading the way through his dewy, rosegrown gar- 
den, and conversing amicably as he went, he escorted Mac- 
farlane and Duprez to what he called with a gentle humor 
his “ Bee-Metropolis,” while Errington and Lorimer re- 
turned to the shore of the Fjord, where they had left their 
boat moored to a small, clumsily" constructed pier, — and 
entering it, they set themselves to the oars and pulled 
away together with the long, steady, sweeping stroke ren- 
dered famous by the exploits of the Oxford and Cambridge 
men. After some twenty minutes’ rowing, Lorimer looked 
up and spoke as he drew his blade swiftly through the 
bright green water. 

“ I feel as though I were aiding and abetting you in 
some crime, Phil. You know, my first impression of this 
business remains the same. You had much better leave it 
alone.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Errington cooily. 

“ Well, ’pon my life I don’t know why. Except that, 
from long experience, I have proved that it’s always dan- 
gerous and troublesome to run after a woman. Leave her 
to run after you — she’ll do it fast enough.” 

“ Wait till you see her. Besides, I’m not running after 
any woman,” averred Philip with some heat. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon — I forgot. She’s not a woman ; 
she’s a Sun-angel. You are rowing, not running, after a 
Sun-angel. Is that correct ? I say, don’t drive through 
the water like that ; you’ll pull the boat round.” 

Errington slackened his speed and laughed. It’s only 
curiosity,” he said, lifting his hat, and pushing back the 
clustering dark-brown curls from his brow. “ I bet you 
that sleek Dyceworthy fellow meant tlie old bonde and 
his daughter, when he spoke of persons who were ‘ ejected ’ 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


45 


from the social circles of Bosekop. Fancy Bosekop soci- 
ety presuming to be particular — what an absurd idea I ” 

“ My good fellow, don’t pretend to be so deplorably ig- 
norant ! Surely you know that a trumpery village or a 
twopenny town is much more choice and exclusive in its 
‘ sets ’ than a great city ? I wouldn’t live in a small 
place for the world. Every inhabitant would know the 
cut of my clothes by heart, and the number of buttons 
on my waistcoat. The grocer would copy the pattern of 
my trousers, — the butcher would carry a cane like mine 
It would be simply insufferable. To change the subject, 
may I ask you if you know which way you are going, 
for it seems to me we’re bound straight for a smash on 
that uncomfortable-looking rock, where there is certainly 
no landing-place.” 

Errington stopped pulling, and, standing up in the boat, 
began to examine the surroundings with keen interest. 
They were close to the great crag “ shaped like a giant’s 
helmet,” as Yaldemar Svenson had said. It rose sheer out 
of the water, and its sides were almost perpendicular. 
Some beautiful star-shaped sea anemones clung to it in a vari- 
colored cluster on one projection, and the running ripple of 
the small waves broke on its jagged corners with a musical 
splash, and sparkle of white foam. Below them, in the em- 
erald mirror of the Fjord, it was so clear that they could 
see the fine white sand Ijdng at the bottom, sprinkled thick 
with shells and lithe moving creatures of all shapes, while 
every now and then, there streamed past them, brilliantly 
tinted specimens of the Medusm, with their long feelers or 
tendrils, looking like torn skins of crimson and azure floss 
silk. 

The place was very silent ; only the sea-gulls circled 
round and round the summit of the great rock, some of 
them occasionally swooping down on the unwary fishes, their 
keen eyes perceived in the waters beneath, then up again 
they soared, swaying their graceful wings and uttering at 
intervals that peculiar wild cry that in solitary haunts 
sounds so intensely mournful. Errington gazed about him 
in doubt for some minutes, then suddenly his face bright- 
ened. He sat down again in the boat and resumed his oar. 

“ Bow quietly, George,” he said in a subdued tone. 
‘‘ Quietly — round to the left.” 

The oars dipped noiselessly, and the boat shot forward,^ — 
then swerved sharply i*ound in the direction indicated,— 


46 


THELMA. 


and there before them lay a small sandy creek, white and 
shining as though sprinkled with powdered silver. From 
this, a small but strongly-built wooden pier ran out into the 
sea. It was carved all over with fantastic figures, and in it, 
at equal distances, were fastened iron rings, such as are 
used for the safe mooring of boats. One boat was there al- 
ready, and Errington recognized it with delight. It was 
that in which he had seen the mysterious maiden disappear. 
High and dry on the sand, out of reach of the tides, was a 
neat sailing-vessel ; its name was painted round the stern 
— The Valkyrie. 

As the two friends ran their boat on shore, and fastened 
it to the furthest ring of the convenient pier, they caught 
the distant sound of the plaintiflT coo-cooing ” of turtle 
doves. 

“ You’ve done it this time, old boy,” said Lorimer, speak- 
ing in a whisper, though he knew not why. “ This is the 
old bonde'^s own private landing-place evidently, and here’s a 
footpath leading somewhere. Shall we follow it ? ” 

Philip emphatically assented, and, treading softly, like 
the trespassers they felt themselves to be, they climbed the 
ascending narrow way that guided them up from the sea- 
shore, round through a close thicket of pines, where their 
footsteps fell noiselessly on a thick carpet of velvety green 
moss, dotted prettily here and there with the red gleam of 
ripening wild strawberries. Everything was intensely still, 
and as yet there seemed no sign of human habitation. Sud- 
denly a low whirring sound broke upon their ears, and Er- 
rington, who was a little in advance of his companion, 
paused abruptly with a smothered exclamation, and drew 
back on tip-toe, catching Lorimer by the arm. 

“ By J ove ! ” he whispered excitedly, “ we’ve come right 
up to the very windows of the house. Look 1 ” 

Lorimer obeyed, and for once, the light jest died upon his 
lips. Surprise and admiration held him absolutely silent. 


CHAPTER V. 

“ Elle filait et souriait — et je crois qu’elle enveloppa mon coeur 
avec son fil.”— Heine. 

Before them, close enough for their outstretched hands 
to have touched it, was what appeared to be a framed pic- 
ture, exquisitely painted,— a picture perfect in outline, 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 


47 


matchless in color, faultless in detail, — but which was in 
reality nothing but a large latticed window thrown wide 
open to admit the air. They could now see distinctly 
through the shadows cast by the stately pines, a long, low, 
rambling house, built roughly, but strongly, of wooden raf- 
ters, all overgrown with green and blossoming creepers ; 
but they scarcely glanced at the actual building, so strongly 
was their attention riveted on the one window before them. 
It W'as surrounded by an unusually broad framework, curi- 
ously and elaborately carved, and black as polished ebony. 
Flowers grew all about it, — sweet peas, mignonette, and 
large purple pansies — while red and white climbing roses 
rioted in untrained profusion over its wide sill. Above it 
was a quaintly built dovecote, where some of the strutting 
fan-tailed inhabitants were perched, swelling out their snowy 
breasts, and discoursing of their domestic trials in notes of 
dulcet melancholy ; while lower down, three or four ring- 
doves nestled on the roof in a patch of sunlight, spreading 
up their pinions like miniature sails, to catch the warmth 
and lustre. 

Within the deep, shadowy embrasure, like a jewel placed 
on dark velvet, was seated a girl spinning, — no other than 
the m3^sterious maiden of the shell cavern. She was attired 
in a plain, straight gown, of some soft white woolen stuff, 
cut squarel}^ at her throat ; her round, graceful arms were 
partially bare, and as the wheel turned swiftly, and her 
slender hands busied themselves with the flax, she smiled, 
as though some pleasing thought had touched her mind. 
Her smile had the effect of sudden sunshine in the dark 
room where she sat and span, — it was radiant and mirthful 
as the smile of a happy child. Yet her dark blue eyes re- 
mained pensive and earnest, and the smile soon faded, leav- 
ing her fair face absorbed and almost dreamy. The whirr- 
whirring of the wheel grew less and less rapid, — it slack- 
ened, — it stopped altogether, — and, as though startled by 
some unexpected sound, the girl paused and listened, push- 
ing away the clustering masses of her rich hair from her 
brow. Then rising slowly from her seat, she advanced to 
the window, put aside the roses with one hand, and looked 
out, — thus forming another picture as beautiful, if not more 
beautiful, than the first. 

Lorimer drew his breath hard. “ I say, old fellow,” he 
whispered ; but Errington pressed his arm with vice-like 
firmness, as a warning to him to be silent, while they both 


48 


THELMA. 


stepped further back into the dusky gloom of the pine 
boughs. 

The girl, meanwhile, stood motionless, in a half-expectant 
attitude, and., seeing her there, some of the doves on the 
roof flew down and strutted on the ground before her, coo- 
cooing proudly, as though desirous of attracting her atten- 
tion. One of them boldly perched on the window-sill ; she 
glanced at the bird musingly, and softl}^ stroked its opaline 
wings and shining head without terrifying it. It seemed 
delighted to be noticed, and almost lay down under her 
hand in order to be more conveniently caressed. Still gently 
smoothing its feathers, she leaned further out among the 
clambering wealth of blossoms, and called in a low, pene- 
trating tone, Father ! father ! is that you ? ” 

There was no answer ; and, after waited a minute or two, 
she moved and resumed her former seat, the stray doves 
flew back to their customary promenade on the roof, and 
the drowsy whirr-whirr of the spinning-wheel murmured 
again its monotonous hum upon the air. 

“ Come on, Phil,” whispered Lorimer, determined not to 
be checked this time ; “ I feel perfectly wretched ! It’s 
mean of us to be skulking about here, as if we were a. 
couple of low thieves waiting to trap some of those birds 
for a pigeon-pie. Come away, — you’ve seen her; that’s 
enough.” 

Errington did not move. Holding back a branch of pine, 
he watched the movements of the girl at her wheel with 
absorbed fascination. 

Suddenly her sweet lips parted, and she sang a weird, wild 
melody, that seemed, like a running torrent, to have fallen 
from the crests of the mountains, bringing with it echoes 
from the furthest summits, mingled with soft wailings of a 
mournful wind. 

He voice was pure as the ring of fine crystal — deep, 
liquid, and tender, with a restrained passion in it that 
stirred Errington’s heart and filled it with a strange unrest 
and feverish yearning, — emotions which were new to him, 
and which, while he realized their existence, moved him to 
a sort of ashamed impatience. He would have willingly 
left his post of observation now, if only for the sake of 
shaking off his unwonted sensations ; and he took a step or 
two backwards for that purpose, when Lorimer, in his turn, 
laid a detaining hand on his shoulder. 

“ For Heaven’s sake, let us hear the song through I ” he 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


49 


said in subdued tones. “ What a voice 1 A positive golden 
flute 1 ” 

His rapt face betokened his enjoyment, and Errington, 
nothing loth, still lingered, his eyes fixed on the white- 
robed slim flgure framed in the dark old rose-wreathed win- 
dow — the flgure that swayed softly with the motion of the 
wheel and the rhythm of the song, — while flickering sun- 
beams sparkled now and then on the maiden’s dusky gold 
hair, or touched up a warmer tint on her tenderly flushed 
cheeks, and fair neck, more snowy than the gown she wore. 
Music poured from her lips as from the throat of a night-t 
ingale. The words she sang were Norwegian, and her lis-\ 
tellers understood nothing of them ; but the melody, — the ' 
pathetic appealing melody, — soul-moving as all true mel- 
ody must be, touched the very core of their hearts, and 
entangled them in a web of delicious reveries. 

“ Talk of Ary Schefler’s Gretchen I ” murmured Lorimer 
with a sigh. “ What a miserable, pasty, milk-and-watery 
young person she is beside that magnificent, unconscious 
beauty I I give in, Phil! I admit your taste. I’m willing 
to swear that she’s a Sun-Angel if you like. Her voice has 
convinced me of that.” 

At that instant the song ceased. Errington turned and 
regarded him steadfastly. 

“ Are you hit, George ? ” he said softly, with a forced 
smile. 

Lorimer’s face flushed, but he met his friend’s eyes 
frankly. 

“ I am no poacher, old fellow,” he answered in the same 
quiet accents ; “ I think you know that. If that girl’s 
mind is as lovely as her face, I say, go in and win I ” 

Sir Philip smiled. His brow cleared and an expression 
of relief settled there. The look of gladness was uncon- 
scious ; but Lorimer saw it at once and noted it. 

“ Nonsense I ” he said in a mirthful undertone. “ How can 
I go in and win, as you say ? What am I to do ? I can’t go 
up to that window and speak to her, — she might take me 
for a thief” 

“ You look like a thief,” replied Lorimer, surveying his 
friend’s athletic flgure, clad in its loose but well-cut yacht- 
ing suit of white flannel, ornamented with silver anchor 
buttons, and taking a comprehensive glance from the easy 
pose of the fine liead and liandsome face, down to the trim 
foot with the high and well-arched, instep. “ very much like 


50 


THELMA. 


a thief ? I wonder I haven’t noticed it before. Any London 
policeman would arrest you on the mere fact of 3 ^our sus- 
picious appearance.” 

Errington laughed. “ Well, my boy, whatever ni}^ looks 
may testify, I am at this moment an undoubted trespasser 
on private property, — and so are 3 "Ou for that matter. What 
shall we do ? ” 

“ Find the front door and ring the bell,” suggested 
George promptly. “ Say we are benighted travellers 
and have lost our way. The bonde can but flay us. 
The operation, I believe, is painful, but it cannot last 
long.” 

“ George, you are incorrigible ! Suppose we go back and 
try the other side of this pine-wood ? That might lead us 
to the front of the house.” 

“ I don’t see why we shouldn’t walk coolly past that win- 
dow,” said Lorimer. “ If any observation is made by the 
fair ‘ Marguerite ’ yonder, we can boldly say we have come 
to see the bonde.''* 

Unconsciously they had both raised their voices a little 
during the latter part of their hasty dialogue, and at the 
instant when Lorimer uttered the last words, a heavy hand 
was laid on each of their shoulders, — a hand that turned 
them round forcibly away from the window they had been 
gazing at, and a deep, resonant voice addressed them. 

“ The bonde ? Truly, young men, you need seek no 
further, — I am Olaf Giildmar I ” 

Had he said, “ I am an Emperor 1 ” he could not have 
spoken with more pride. 

Errington and his friend were for a moment speechless, — 
partly from displeasure at the summary manner in which 
they had been seized and twisted round like young uprooted 
saplings, and partly from surprise and involuntary admira- 
tion for the personage who had treated them with such 
scant courtesy. They saw before them a man somewhat 
above the middle height, who might have served an aspir- 
ing sculptor as a perfect model for a chieftain of old 
Gaul, or a dauntless ATking. His frame was firmly and 
powerfully built, and seemed to be exceptional^ strong and 
muscular ; yet an air of almost courtl}^ grace pervaded his 
movements, making each attitude he assumed more or less 
picturesque. He was broad-shouldered and deep-chested ; 
his face was full and healthily colored, while his head was 
truly magnificent. Well-poised and shapely, it indicated 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


51 


pcrwer, will, and wisdom ; and was furthermore adorned by 
a rough, thick mass of snow-white hair that shone in the 
sunlight like spun silver. His beard was short and curly, 
trimmed after the fashion of the warriors of old Rome ; and, 
from under his fierce, fuzzy, grey e^^ebrows, a pair of sentf 
nel e^^es, that were keen, clear, and bold as an eagle’s, 
looked out with a watchful steadiness — steadiness that like 
the sharp edge of a diamond, seemed warranted to cut 
through the brittle glass of a lie. d udging by his outward 
appearance, his age might have been guessed at as between 
fifty-eight and sixty, but he was, in truth, seventy-two, and 
more strong, active, and daring than many another man 
whose 3^ears are not counted past the thirties. He w^as 
curiously attired, after something of the fashion of the 
Highlander, and something yet more of the ancient Greek, in a 
tunic, vest, and loose jacket all made of reindeer skin, thickly 
embroidered with curious designs worked in coarse thread 
and colored beads ; while thrown carelessly over his shoul- 
ders and knotted at his waist, was a broad scarf of white 
woollen stuff*, or wadmel^ very soft-looking and warm. In 
his belt he carried a formidable hunting-knife, and as he 
faced the two intruders on his ground, he rested one hand 
lightly 3^et suggestively on a weight}^ staff* of pine, which 
was notched all over with quaint letters and figures, and 
terminated in a curved handle at the top. He Traited for 
the young man to speak, and finding they remained sil- 
ent, he glanced at them half angrily and again repeated 
his words — 

“ I am the honde ^ — Olaf Giildmar. Speak your business 
and take ^^our departure ; my time is brief I ” 

Lorimer looked up with his usual nonchalance, — a faint 
smile playing about his lips. He saw at once that the old 
farmer w^as not a man to be trifled with, and he raised his 
cap with a ready grace as he spoke. 

“ Fact is,” he said frankly, “ we’ve no business here at 
all — not the least in the world. We are perfectly aware of 
it! We are tresspassers, and we know it. Pray don’t be 
hard on us, Mr. — Mr. Giildmar I ” 

The honde glanced him over with a quick lightening of 
the eyes, and the suspicion of a smile in the depths of 
his curly beard. He turned to Errington. 

“Is this true? You came here on purpose, knowing 
the ground was private propert^^ ? ” 

Errington, in his turn, lifted his cap from his clustering 


52 


THELMA, 


brown curls with that serene and stately court manner 
which was to him second nature. 

“ We did,” he confessed, quietly following Lorimer’s cue, 
and seeing also that it was best to be straightforward. 
“We heard you spoken of in Bosekop, and we came to see 
if you would permit us the honor of your acquaintance.” 

The old man struck his pine-staff violently into the 
ground, and his face flushed wrathfully. 

“ Bosekop ! ” he exclaimed. “ Talk to me of a wasp’s 
nest! Bosekop! You shall hear of me there enough to 
satisfy your appetite for news. Bosekop ! In the days 
when my race ruled the land, such people as they that 
dwell there would have been put to sharpen m}^ sword on 
the grindstone, or to wait, hungry and humble, for the re- 
fuse of the food left from my table ! ” 

He spoke with extraordinary heat and passion, — it was 
evidently necessary to soothe him. Lorimer took a covert 
glance backward over his shoulder towards the lattice win- 
dow, and saw that the white figure at the spinning-wheel 
had disappeared. 

“ My dear Mr. Giildmar,” he then said with polite fervor, 
“ I assure you I think the Bosekop folk by no means de- 
serve to sharpen your sword on the grindstone, or to enjoy 
the remains of your dinner ! Myself, I despise them ! My 
friend here. Sir Philip Errington, despises them — don’t you, 
Phil ? ” 

Errington nodded demurely. 

“ What my friend said just now is perfectly true,” con- 
tinued Lorimer. “We desire the honor of your acquaint- 
ance, — it will charm and delight us above all things ! ” 

And his face beamed with a candid, winning, bo3dsh 
smile, which w^as very captivating in its own way, and 
which certainly had its eflect on the old honde, for his tone 
softened, though he said gravely — 

“ My acquaintance, young men, is never sought by any. 
Those who are wise, keep away from me. I love not 
strangers, it is best you should know it. I freely pardon 
3"our trespass ; take your leave, and go in peace.” 

The two friends exchanged disconsolate looks. There 
really seemed nothing for it, but to obey this unpleasing 
command. Errington made one more venture. 

“ May I hope, Mr. Giildmar,” he said with persuasive 
courtes^^, “ that 3^011 will break through your apparent rule 
of seclusion for once and visit me on board my 3^acht ? You 


THE LAND OF THE ^IIDNIGHT SUN 53 

have no doubt seen her — the Eulalie — she lies at anchor in 
the Fjord.” 

The honde looked him straight in the eyes. “ I have 
seen her. A fair toy vessel to amuse an idle young man’s 
leisure! You are he that in that fool’s hole of a Bosekop, 
is known as the ‘rich Englishman,’ — an idle trifler with 
time, — an aimless wanderer from those dull shores where 
they eat gold till they die of surfeit I I have heard of you, 
— a mushroom knight, a fungus of nobility, — an ephemeral 
growth on a grand decaying old tree, whose roots lie buried 
in tlie annals of a far forgotten past.” 

The rich, deep voice of the old man quivered as bespoke, 
and a shadow of melancholy flitted across his brow. Er- 
rington listened with unruffled patience. He heard himself, 
his pleasures, his wealth, his rank, thus made light of, 
without the least offense. He met the steady gaze of the 
honde quietly, and slightly bent his head as though in 
deference to his remarks. 

“ You are quite right,” he said simpl}^ “ We modern 
men are but pigmies compared with the giants of old time. 
Royal blood itself is tainted nowadays. But, for myself, I 
attach no importance to the mere appurtenances of life, — 
the baggage that accompanies one on that brief journey. 
Life itself is quite enough for me.” 

“ And for me too,” averred Lorimer, delighted that his 
friend had taken the old farmer’s scornful observations so 
good-naturedl}^ “ But, do you know, Mr. Giildmar, you 
are making life unpleasant for us just now, by turning us 
out? The conversation is becoming interesting ! Why not 
prolong it ? We have no friends in Bosekop, and we are 
to anchor here for some days. Surely you will allow us to 
come and see you again ? ” 

Olaf Giildmar was silent. He advanced a step nearer, 
and studied them both with such earnest and searching 
scrutiny, that as they remembered the real attraction that 
had drawn them thither, the conscious blood mounted to 
their faces, flushing Errington’s forehead to the A^ery roots of 
his curly brown hair. Still the old man gazed as though 
he sought to read their very souls. He muttered some- 
thing to himself in Norwegian, and, finally, to their utter 
astonishment, he drew his hunting-knife from its sheath, 
and with a rapid, wild gesture, threw it on the ground and 
placed his foot upon it. 

“ Be it so I ” he said briefly. “ I cover the blade I You 


54 


THELMA. 


are men ; like men you speak truth. As such, I receive 
you ! Had you told me a lie concerning your coming here, 
— .had you made pretense of having lost your waj^, or other 
such shifty evasion, your path would never have again 
crossed mine. As it is, — welcome ! ” 

And he held out his hand with a sort of ro3'al dignitj", 
still resting one foot on the fallen weapon. The 3'Oung 
men, struck by his action and gratified by his change of 
manner and the genial expression that now softened liis 
rugged features, were quick to respond to his friendl3" 
greeting, and the bonde, picking up and re-sheathing his 
hunting-knife as if he had done nothing at all out of the 
common, motioned them towards the very window on which 
their eyes had been so long and so ardentl3^ fixed. 

“ Come ! ” he said. “ You must drain a cup of wine with 
me before you leave. Your un guided footsteps led 3^011 by 
the wrong path, — I saw 3^0111’ boat moored to 1113" pier, and 
wondered who had been venturesome enough to trample 
through my woodland. I might have guessed that onl3' a 
couple of idle boys like 3"ourselves, knowing no better, 
would have pushed their way to a spot that all worth3^ 
dwellers in Bosekop, and all true followers of the Lutheran 
devilry, avoid as though the plague were settled in it.” 

And the old man laughed, a splendid, mellow laugh, with 
the ring of true jollity in it, — a laugh that was infectious, 
for Errington and Lorimer joined in it heartil3' without 
precisely knowing wh3^ Lorimer, how’ever, thought it 
seemly to protest against the appellation “ idle bo3’s.” 

“ What do you take us for, sir? ” he said with laz3" good- 
nature. “ I carry upon my shoulders the sorrowful burden 
of twenty-six years, — Philip, there, is painfully conscious 
of being thirty, — may we not therefore dispute the word 
‘ boys ’ as being derogatory to our dignit3" ? You called us 
‘ men ’ a while ago, — remember that ! ” 

Olaf Giildmar laughed again. His suspicious gravity 
had entirely disappeared, leaving his face a beaming mirror 
of beneficence and good humor. 

“ So you are men,” he said cheerily, “ men in the bud, 
like leaves on a tree. But you seem bo3"s to a tough old 
stump of humanity such as I am. That is my wa3', — my 
child Thelma, though they tell me she is a woman grown, 
is always a babe tome. ’Tis one of the many privileges of 
the old, to see the world about them always young and full 
of children.” 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


55 


And he led the way past the wide-open lattice, where 
they could dimly perceive the spinning-wheel standing 
alone, as though thinking deeply of the fair hands that had 
lately left it idle, and so round to the actual front of the 
house, which was exceedingly picturesque, and literally 
overgrown with roses from ground to roof. The entrance 
door stood open ; — it was surrounded by a wide, deep porch 
richly carved and grotesquely ornamented, having two 
comfortable seats within it, one on each side. Through 
this they went, involuntarily brushing down as they passed, 
a shower of pink and white rose-leaves, and stepped into a 
wide passage, where upon walls of dark, polished pine, 
hung a large collection of curiously shaped weapons, all of 
primitive manufacture, such as stone darts and rough axes, 
together with bows and arrows and two-handled swords, 
huge as the fabled weapon of William Wallace. 

Opening a door to the right the bonde stood courteously 
aside and bade them enter, and they found themselves in 
the very apartment where they had seen the maiden spin- 
ning. 

“ Sit down, sit down I ” said their host hospitably. “We 
will have wine directly, and Thelma shall come hither. 
Thelma I Thelma I Where is the child? She wanders 
hither and thither like a mountain sprite. Wait here, my 
lads, I shall return directly.” 

And he strode away, leaving Errington and Lorimer de- 
lighted at the success of their plans, yet somewhat abashed 
too. There was a peace and gentle simplicity about the 
little room in which they were, that touched the chivalrous 
sentiment in their natures and kept them silent. On one 
side of it, half a dozen broad shelves supported a goodly 
row of well-bound volumes, among which the time-honored 
golden names of Shakespeare and Scott glittered invitingly, 
together with such works as Chapman’s Homer, Byron’s 
“ Childe Harold,” the Poems of John Keats, Gibbon’s 
Rome, and Plutarch ; while mingled with these were the 
devotional works in French of Alphonse de Liguori, the 
“ Imitation,” also in French, — and a number of books with 
titles in Norwegian, — altogether an heterogenous collection 
of literature, yet not without interest as displaying taste 
and culture on the part of those to whom it belonged. Er- 
rington, himself learned in books, was surprised to see so 
many standard works in the library of one who professed 
to be nothing but a Norwegian fanner, and his respect for 


56 


THELMA. 


the sturdy old honde increased. There were fio pictures iii 
the room, — the wide lattice window on one hand, looking 
out on the roses and pine- wood, and the other smaller one, 
close to the entrance door, from which the Fjord was dis- 
tinctly visible, were sufficient pictures in themselves, to 
need no others. The furniture was roughly made of pine, 
and seemed to have been carved by hand, — some of the 
chairs were A’^ery quaint and pretty and would have sold in 
a bric-a-brac shop for more than a sovereign apiece. On 
the wide mantle-shelf was a quantity of curious old china 
that seemed to have been picked up from all parts of the 
world, — most of it was undoubtedly valuable. In one dark 
corner stood an ancient harp ; then there was the spinning- 
wheel, — itself a curiosity lit for a museum, — testifying 
dumbly of the mistress of all these surroundings, and on 
the floor there was something else, — something that both 
the young men were strongly inclined to take posession of. 
It was only a bunch of tiny meadow daisies, fastened to- 
gether with a bit of blue silk. It had fallen, — they guessed 
by whom it had been worn, — but neither made any remark, 
and both, by some strange instinct, avoided looking at it, 
as though the innocent little blossoms carried within them 
some terrible temptation. They were conscious of a cer- 
tain embarrassment, and making an effort to break through 
it, Lorimer remarked softly — 

“ By JoA^e, Phil, if this old Giildmar really knew what 
you are up to, I belieA^e he would bundle you out of this 
place like a tramp ! Didn’t you feel a sneak when he said 
we had told the truth like men ? ” 

Philip smiled dreamily. He was seated in one of the 
quaintly carved chairs, half absorbed in what was evidently 
a pleasing reverie. 

“No; not exactly,” he replied. “Because we did tell 
him the truth ; we did want to know him, and he’s worth 
knowing too I He is a magnificent-looking fellow : don’t you 
think so ? ” 

“ Rather I ” assented Lorimer, with emphasis. “ I wish 
there were any hope of my becoming such a fine old buffer 
in my decadence, — it would be worth living for if only to 
look at myself in the glass now and then. He rather start- 
led me when he threw down that knife, though. I suppose 
it is some old Norwegian custom ? ” 

“ I suppose so,” Errington answered, and then was silent, 
for at that moment the door opened and the old farmer r^ 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


67 


turned, followed by a girl bearing a tray glittering with 
flasks of Italian wine, and long graceful glasses shaped like 
round goblets, set on particularly slender stems. The sight 
of the girl disappointed the eager visitors, for though she 
was undeniably pretty, she was not Thelma. She was short 
and plump, with rebellious nut-brown locks, that rippled 
about her face and from under her close white cap with per- 
sistent untidiness. Her heeks were as round and red as 
love-apples, and she had dancing blue eyes that appeared 
for ever engaged in good-natured efforts to outsparkle each 
other. She wore a spotless apron, lavishly trimmed with 
coquettish little starched frills, — her hands were, unfortu- 
nately, rather large and coarse, — but her smile, as she set 
down the tray and curtsied respectfully to the young men, 
was charming, disclosing as it did, tiny teeth as even and 
white as a double row of small pearls. 

“ That is well, Britta,” said Giildmar, speaking in Eng- 
lish, and assisting her to place the glasses. “ Now, quicks 
. . . run after thy mistress to the shore, — her boat cam 

not yet have left the creek, — bid her return and come to me, 
— tell her there are friends here who will be glad of her 
presence.” 

Britta hurried away at once, but Errington’s heart sank. 
Thelma had gone ! — gone, most probably, for one of those 
erratic journeys across the Fjord to the cave where he had 
first seen her. She would not come back, he felt certain ; 
not even at her father’s request would that beautiful, proud 
maiden consent to alter her plans. What an unlucky des- 
tiny was his ! Absorbed in disappointed reflections, he 
scarcely heard the enthusiastic praises Lorimer was diplo- 
matically bestowing on the bonders wine. He hardly felt its 
mellow flavor on his own palate, though it was in truth de- 
licious, and fit for the table of a monarch. Giildmar no- 
ticed the young baronet’s abstraction, and addressed him 
with genial kindness. 

“ Are you thinking. Sir Philip, of my rough speeches to 
you yonder ? No offense was meant, no offense ! . . .” 

the old fellow paused, and laughed over his wine-glass. 

‘Yet I may as well be honest about it ! Offense was 
meant ; but when I found that none was taken, my humor 
changed.” 

A slight, half-weary smile played on Errington’s lips. “ I 
assure you, sir,” he said, “ I agreed with you then and agree 
with you now in every word you uttered. You took my 


58 


THELMA. 


measure very correctly, and allow me to add that no one 
can be more conscious of my own insignificance that I am 
myself. The days we live in are insignificant ; the chron- 
icle of our paltry doings will be skipped by future readers 
of the country’s history. Among a society of particularly 
useless men, I feel myself to be one of the most useless. If 
you could show me any way to make my life valuable ” 

He paused abruptly, and his heart beat with inexplicable 
rapidity. A light step and the rustle of a dress was heard 
coming through the’ porch; another perfumed shower of 
rose-leaves fell softly on the garden path ; the door of the 
room opened, and a tall, fair, white-robed figure shone forth 
from the dark background of the outer passage ; a figure 
that hesitated on the threshold, and then advanced noise- 
lessly and with a reluctant shyness. The old bonde turned 
round in his chair with a smile. 

“ Ah, here she is I ” he said fondly. “ Where hast thou 
been, my Thelma ? ” 


CHAPTER YL 

“And Sigurd the Bishop said, 

‘ The old gods are not dead, 

For the great Thor still reigns. 

And among the Jarls and Thanes 
The old witchcraft is spread.’ ” 

Longfellow’s Saga of King Olaf. 

The girl stood silent, and a faint blush crimsoned her 
cheeks. The young men had risen at her entrance, and in 
one fleeting glance she recognized Errington, though she 
gave no sign to that effect. 

“ See, my darling,” continued her father, “ here are Eng- 
lish visitors to Norway. This is Sir Philip Errington, who 
travels through our wild waters in the great steam yacht 
now at anchor in the Fjord ; and this is his friend, Mr.— 
Mr. — Lorimer, — have I caught your name rightly , my lad ? ” 
he continued, turning to George Lorimer with a kindly 
smile. 

“ You have, sir,” answered that gentleman promptly, and 
then he was mute, feeling curiously abashed in the presence 
of this royal-looking young lady, who, encircled by her 
father’s arm, raised her deep, dazzling blue eyes, and 
serenely bent her stately head to him as his name was men- 
tioned. 


TUE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 


59 


The old farmer went on, “ Welcome them, Thelma mine! 
— friends are scarce in these days, and we must not be un- 
grateful for good company. What 1 what I I know honest 
lads when I see them ! Smile on them, my Thelma I — and 
then we will warm their hearts with another cup of wine.” 

As he spoke, the maiden advanced with a graceful, even 
noble air, and extending both her hands to each of the visi- 
tors in turn, she said — 

“ I am your servant, friends ; in entering this house you 
do possess it. Peace and heart’s greeting ! ” 

The words were a literal translation of a salutation per- 
fectly common in many parts of Norway — a mere ordinary 
expression of politeness ; but, uttered in the tender, pene- 
trating tones, of the most musical voice they had ever 
heard, and accompanied by the warm, frank, double hand- 
clasp of those soft, small, daintily shaped hands, the ehect 
on the minds of the generally self-possessed, fashionably 
bred young men of the world, was to confuse and bewilder 
them to the last degree. What could they answer to this 
poetical, quaint formula of welcome ? The usual ^ lati- 
tudes, such as “ Delighted, I’m sure ; ” or, “ Most happy — 
am charmed to meet you?” No; these remarks, deemed 
intelligent by the lady rulers of London drawing-rooms, 
would, they felt, never do here. As well put a gentleman 
in modern evening dress en face with a half-nude scorn- 
fully beautiful statue of Apollo, as tro out threadbare, in- 
sincere commonplaces in the hearing of this clear-eyed child 
of nature, whose pure, perfect face seemed to silently repel 
the very passing shadow of a falsehood. 

Philip’s brain whirled round and about in search of some 
suitable reply, but could find none ; and Lorimer felt him- 
self blushing like a schoolboy, as he stammered out some- 
thing incoherent and eminently foolish, though he had sense 
enough left to appreciate the pressure of those lovely hands 
as long as it lasted. 

Thelma, however, appeared not to notice their deep em- 
barrassment — she had not yet done with them. Taking 
the largest goblet on the table, she filled it to the brim with 
wine, and touched it with her lips, — then with a smile in 
which a thousand radiating sunbeams seemed to quiver and 
sparkle, she lifted it towards Errington. The grace of her 
attitude and action wakened him out of his state of dreamy 
bewilderment — in his soul he devoutly blessed these ancient 
family customs, and arose to the occasion like a man. 


60 


THELMA. 


Clasping with a tender reverence the hands that upheld the 
goblet, he bent his handsome head and drank a deep 
draught, while his dark curls almost touched her fair ones, 
— and then an insane jealousy possessed him for a moment, 
as he watched her go through the same ceremony with 
Lorimer. 

She next carried the now more than half-emptied cup to 
the bonde^ and said as she heh. it, laughing softly — 

“ Drink it all, father !— if you leave a drop, you know 
these gentlemen will quarrel with us, or you with them.” 

“ That is true I ” said Olaf Giildmar with great gravity ; 
“ but it will not be my fault, child, nor the fault of wasted 
wine.” 

And he drained the glass to its dregs and set it upside 
down on the table with a deep sigh of satisfaction and re- 
freshment. The ceremony concluded, it was evident the 
ice of reserve was considered broken, for Thelma seated 
herself like a young queen, and motioned her visitors to do 
the same with a gesture of gracious condescension. 

“ How did you find your way here ? ” she asked with 
sweet, yet direct abruptness, giving Sir Philip a q ick 
glance, in which there was a sparkle of mirth, though her 
long lashes veiled it almost instantly. 

Her entire lack of stiffness and reserve set the young 
men at their ease, and they fell into conversation freely, 
though Errington allowed Lorimer to tell the story of their 
trespass in his own fashion without interference. He in- 
stinctively felt that the j'^oung lady who listened with so 
demure a smile to th..t plausible narrative, knew well 
enough the real motive that had brought them thither 
though she apparently had her own reasons for k eping 
silence on the point, as whatever she may have thoug t, she 
said nothing. 

Lorimer skillfully avoided betraying the fact that they 
had watched her through the window, and had listened to 
her singing. And Thelma heard all the explanations pa- 
tiently till Bosekop was mentioned, and then her fair face 
grew cold and stern. 

“ From whom did you hear of us there ? ” she inquired. 
“We do not mix with the people, — why should they speak 
of us ? ” 

“ The truth is,” interposed Errington, resting his eyes 
with a sense of deep delight on the beautiful rounded figure 
a-nd lovely features that were turned towards him, “ I 


TEE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 61 

heard of you first through my pilot — one Valdemar 
Svensen.” 

“ Ha, ha I cried old Giildmar with some excitement, 
“ there is a fellow who cannot hold his tongue I What have 
I said to thee, child ? A bachelor is no better than a gos- 
siping old woman. He that is always alone must talk, if 
it be only to woods and waves. It is the married men who 
know best how excellent it is to keep silence I ” 

They all laughed, though Thelma’s eyes had a way of 
looking pensive even when she smiled. 

“ You would not blame poor Svensen because he is alone, 
father ? ” she said. “ Is he not to be pitied ? Surely it is a 
cruel fate to have none to love in all the wide world. Noth- 
ing can J)e more cruel ! ” 

Giildmar surveyed her humorously. ‘‘ Hear her I ” he 
said. “ She talks as if she knew all about such things ; 
and if ever a child was ignorant of sorrow, surely it is my 
Thelma ! Every flower and bird in the place loves her. 
Yes ; I have thought sometimes the very sea loves her. It 
must ; she is so much upon it. And as for her old father ” 
— he laughed a little, though a suspicious moisture softened 
his keen eyes — why, he doesn’t love her at all. Ask her I 
She knows it.” 

Thelma rose quickly and kissed him. How deliciously 
those sweet lips pouted, thought Errington, and what an 
unreasonable 'and extraordinary grudge he seemed to bear 
towards the venerable bonde for accepting that kiss with so 
little apparent emotion I 

“ Hush, father I ” she said. “ These friends can see too 
plainly how much you spoil me. Tell me,” — and she turned 
with a sudden pretty imperiousness to Lorimer, who started 
at her voice as a racehorse starts at its rider’s touch, — 
“ what person in Bosekop spoke of us ? ” 

Lorimer was rather at a loss, inasmuch as no one in the 
small town had actually spoken of them, and Mr. Dyce- 
worthy’s remarks concerning those who were “ ejected witli 
good reason from respectable society,” might not, after all, 
have applied to the Giildmar family. Indeed, it now seemed 
an absurd and improbable supposition. Therefore he re- 
plied cautiously — 

“ The Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy, I think, has some 
knowledge of you. Is he not a friend of yours ? ” 

These simple words had a most unexpected effect. Olaf 
Giildmar sprang up from his seat flaming with wrath. It 


62 


THELMA. 


was in vain that his daughter laid a restraining hand upon 
his arm. The name of the Lutheran divine had sufficed to 
put him in a towering passion, and he turned furiousl}* 
upon the astonished Errington. 

“ Had I known you came from the devil, sir, you should 
have returned to him speedily, with hot words to hasten 
your departure ! I would have split that glass to atoms be- 
fore I would have drained it after you ! The friends of a 
false heart are no friends for me, — the followers of a pre- 
tended sanctity find no welcome under my roof I Why not 
have told me at once that you came as spies, hounded on by 
the liar Dj'ceworthy ? Why not have confessed it openly ? 
. . . . and not have played the thief’s trick on an old 

fool, who, for once, misled by 3'our manly and upright bear- 
ing, consented to lay aside the rightful suspicions he at first 
entertained of your purpose ? Shame on you, young men I 
shame I ” 

The words coursed impetuously from his lips ; his face 
burned with indignation. He had broken away from his 
daughter’s hold, while she, pale and very still, stood leaning 
one hand upon the table. His white hair was tossed back 
from his brow ; his eyes flashed ; his attitude though venge- 
ful and threatening, was at the same time so bold and com- 
manding that Lorimer caught himself lazily admiring the 
contour of his figure, and wondering how he would look in 
marble as an infuriated Yiking. 

One excellent thing in the dispositions of both Errington 
and Lorimer was that they never lost temper. Either they 
were too lazy or too well-bred. Undoubtedly they both 
considered it “ bad form.” This indifference stood them in 
good stead now. They showed no sign whatever of offense, 
though the old farmer’s outbreak of wrath was so sudden 
and unlooked for, that they remained for a moment silent 
out of sheer surprise. Then rising with unruffled serenity, 
they took up their caps preparatory to departure. Erring- 
ton’s gentle, refined voice broke the silence. 

“ You are in error, Mr. Giildmar,” he said in chilly but 
perfectly polite tones. “ I regret you should be so hasty in 
your judgment of us. If you accepted us as ‘ men ’ when 
you first met us, I cannot imagine why you should now 
take us for spies. The two terms are by no means synony- 
mous. I know nothing of Mr. Dyceworthy beyond that he 
called upon me, and that I, as in duty bound, returned his 
call I am ignorant of his character and disposition. I 


TEE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


63 


ma}’’ add that I have no desire to be enlightened respecting 
them. I do not often take a dislike to anybody, but it so 
happens that I have done so in the case of Mr. Dyceworthy. 
I know Loriiner doesn’t care for him, and I don’t think my 
other two friends are particularly attached to him. I have 
nothing more to say, except that I fear we have outstayed 
our welcome. Permit us now to wish you good evening. 
And you,” — he hesitated, and turned with a low bow to 
Thelma, who had listened to his words with a gradually 
dawning brightness on her face — “ you will, I trust, exon- 
erate us from any intentional offense towards your father 
or yourself? Our visit has proved unlucky, but — ” 

Thelma interrupted him by laying her fair little hand on 
his arm with a wistful, detaining gesture, which, though 
seemingly familiar, was yet perfectly sweet and natural. The 
light touch thrilled his blood, and sent it coursing through 
his veins at more than customary speed. 

“ Ah, then, you also will be foolish I ” she said, with a 
naive protecting air of superior dignity. “ Do you not see 
my father is sorry ? Have we all kissed the cup for nothing, 
or was the wine wasted ? Not a drop was spilt ; how then, 
if we are friends should we part in coldness ? Father, it 
is you to be ashamed, — not these gentleman, who are 
strangers to the Altenflord, and know nothing of Mr. 
Dyceworthy, or an other person dwelling here. And when 
their vessel sails away again oy^’ the wide seas to their own 
shores, how will you have therrfihink of you ? As one whose 
heart was all kindness, and who helped to make their days 
pass pleasantly ? or as one who, in unreasonable anger, for- 
got the duties of sworn hospitality ? ” 

The bonde listened to her full, sweet, reproachful voice as 
a tough old lion might listen to the voice of its tamer, un- 
certain whether to yield or spring. He wiped his heated 
brow and stared around him shamefacedly. Finally, as 
though swallowing his pride with a gulp, he drew a long 
breath, took a couple of determined strides forward, and 
held out his hands, one to Errington and the other to 
Loriiner, by whom they were warmly grasped. 

“ There, my lads,” he said rapidly. “ I’m sorry I spoke I 
Forgive and forget ! That is the worst of me — my blood is 
up in a minute, and old though I am, I’m not old enough 
3 ^et to be patient. And when I hear the name of that sneak 
Dyceworthy — by the gates of Valhalla, I feel as if my own 
house would not hold me 1 No, no; don’t go yet I Neai’l/ 


64 


THELMA. 


ten? Well, no matter, the night is like the day here, you 
see — it doesn’t matter when one goes to bed. Come and sit 
in the porch awhile ; I shall get cool out there. Ah, Thelma, 
child I I see thee laughing at thy old father’s temper I 
Never mind, never mind ; is it not for thy sake after all ? '' 

And, holding Errington by the arm, he led the way into 
the fine old porch, Lorimer following with rather a fiushed 
face, for he, as he passed out of the room, had managed to 
pick up and secrete the neglected little bunch of daisies, be- 
fore noticed as having fallen on the fioor. He put them 
quickly in his breast pocket with a curious sense of satisfac- 
tion, though he had no intention of keeping them, and 
leaned idly against the clambering roses, watching Thelma, 
as she drew a low stool to her father’s feet and sat there. 
A balmy wind blew in from the Fjord, and rustled mysteri- 
ously among the pines ; the sky was flecked here and there 
with fleecy clouds, and a number of birds were singing in 
full chorus. Old Giildmar heaved a sigh of relief, as 
though his recent outburst of passion had done him good. 

“ I will tell you. Sir Philip,” he said, ruffling his 
daughter’s curls as he spoke, — “ I will tell you why I detest 
the villian Dyceworthy. It is but fair you should know it. 
Now, Thelma ! — why that push to my knee ? You fear I 
may offend our friends again ? Nay, I will take good care. 
And so, first of all, 1 ask you, what is your religion? 
Though I know you cannot be Lutherans.” 

Errington was somewhat taken aback by the question. 
He smiled. 

“ My dear sir,” he replied at last ; “ to be frank with you, 
I really do not think I have Sii\y religion. If I had, I sup- 
pose I should call myself a Christian, though, judging from 
the behavior of Christians in general, I cannot be one of 
them after all, — for I belong to no sect, I go to no church, 
and I have never read a tract in my life. I have a profound 
reverence and admiration for the character and doctrine of 
Christ, and I believe if I had had the privilege of knowing 
and, conversing with Him, I should not have deserted Him 
in extremity as his timorous disciples did. I believe in an 
all-wise Creator; so you see I am not an atheist. My 
mother was an Austrian and a Catholic, and I have a notion 
that, as a small child, I was brought up in that creed ; but 
I’m afraid I don’t know much about it now.” 

The boride nodded gravely. “ Thelma, here,” he said, “ is 
^ Catholic, as her mother was — ” he stopped abruptly, and 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 6fi 

a deep shadow of pain darkened his features. Thelma 
looked up, — her large blue eyes filled with sudden tears, 
,and she pressed her father's hand between her own, as 
though in sympathy with some undeclared grief ; then she 
looked at Errington with a sort of wistful appeal. Philip’s 
heart leaped as he met that soft beseeching glance, which 
seemed to entreat his patience with the old man for her 
sake, — he felt himself drawn into a bond of union with her 
thoughts, and in his innermost soul he swore as knightly a 
vow of chivalry and reverence for the fair maiden, who thus 
took him into her silent confidence, as though he were 
some gallant Crusader of old time, pledged to defend his 
lady’s honor unto death. Olaf Giildmar, after a long and 
apparently sorrowful pause, resumed his conversation. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ Thelma is a Catholic, though here she 
has scarcely any opportunity for performing the duties of 
her religion. It is a pretty and a graceful creed, — well 
fitted for women. As for me, I am made of sterner stuff, 
and the maxims of that gentle creature, Christ, find no 
echo in m}^ soul. But you, young sir,” he added, turning 
suddenly on Lorimer, who was engaged in meditatively 
smoothing out on his palm one of the fallen rose-petals — 
“ you have not spoken. What faith do you profess ? It 
is no curiosity that prompts me to ask, — I only seek not to 
offend.” 

Lorimer laughed languidly. “ Upon my life, Mr. Giild- 
mar, you really ask too much of me. I haven’t any faith 
at all ; not a shred ! It’s been all knocked out of me. I 
tried to hold on to a last remaining bit of Christian rope in 
the universal ship-wreck, but that was torn out of my 
hands by a scientific professor, who ought to know what he 
is about, and — and — now I drift along anyhow I ” 

Giildmar smiled dubiously ; but Thelma looked at the 
speaker with astonished, regretful eyes. 

“ I am sorry,” she said simply. “ You must be often un- 
happy.” 

Lorimer was not disconcerted, though her evident pity 
caused an unwonted flush on his face. 

“ Oh no,” he said in answer to her, “ I am not a miserable 
sort of fellow by any means. For instance. I’m not afraid 
of death, — lots of very religious people are horribly afraid 
of it, though they all the time declare it’s the only path to 
heaven. They’re not consistent at all. You see I believe 
6 


66 


THELMA. 


in nothing, — I came from nothing, — I am nothing, — I shall 
be nothing. That being plain, I am all right.” 

Guldmar laughed. “ You are an odd lad,” he said good- 
humoredly. “ You are in the morning of life ; there are 
always mists in the morning as there are in the evening. 
In the light of your full manhood you will see these things 
differently. Your creed of Nothing provides no moral law, 
— no hold on the conscience, no restraint on the passions, — 
don’t you see that ? ” 

Lorimer smiled with a very winning and boyish candor. 
“ You are exceedingly good, sir, to credit me with a con- 
science! I don’t think I have one, — I’m sure I have no 
passions. I have always been too lazy to encourage them, 
and as for moral law, — I adhere to morality with the great- 
est strictness, because if a fellow is immoral, he ceases to be 
a gentleman. Now, as there are very few gentlemen nowa- 
days, I fancy I’d like to be one as long as I can.” 

Errington here interposed. ‘‘ You mustn’t take him 
seriously. Mr. Guldmar,” he said ; ‘‘ he’s never serious 
himself. I’ll give you his character in a few words. He 
belongs to no religious party, it’s true, — but he’s a first- 
rate fellow, — the best fellow I know I ” 

Lorimer glanced at him quietly with a gratified expres- 
sion on his face. But he said nothing, for Thelma was re- 
garding him with a most bewitching smile. 

“ Ah 1 ” she said, shaking a reproachful finger at him, 
“ you do love all nonsense, that I can see ! You would 
make every person laugh, if you could, — is it not so? ” 

“ Well, yes,” admitted George, “ I think I would I But 
it’s a herculean task sometimes. If you had ever been to 
London, Miss Giildmar, 3^011 would understand how diffi- 
cult it is to make people even smile, — and when they do, 
the smile is not a very natural one.” 

“ Why ? ” she exclaimed. “ Are they all so miserable ? 

“ They pretend to be, if they’re not,” said Lorimer ; “ it 
is the fashion there to find fault with ever^^thing and every- 

“ That is so,” said Guldmar thoughtfully. “ I visited 
London once and thought I was in hell. Nothing but rows 
of hard, hideously built houses, long streets, and dirty 
alleys, and the people had weary faces all, as though Nature 
had refused to bless them. A pitiful city, — doubly" pitiful 
to the eyes of a man like myself, whose life has been passed 
among flords and mountains such as these* Well, now, as 


THE LAND OF THE BIIDNIGHT SUN. 


67 


neither of you are Lutherans, — in fact, as neither of you 
seem to know what you are,” and he laughed, “ I can be 
frank, and speak out as to own belief. I am proud to 
say I have never deserted the faith of my fathers, the faith 
that makes a man’s soul strong and fearless, and defiant of 
evil, — the faith that is supposed to be crushed out among 
us, but that is still alive and rooted in the hearts of many 
who can trace back their lineage to the ancient Vikings as 
I can, — yes! — rooted firm and fast, — and however much 
some of the more timorous feign to conceal it, in the tacit ac- 
ceptance of another creed, there are those who can never 
shake it off, and who never desire to forsake it. 1 am one 
of these few. Shame must fall on the man who willfully 
deserts the faith of his warrior-ancestry 1 Sacred to me for 
ever be the names of Odin and Thor 1 ” 

He raised his hand aloft with a proud gesture, and his 
eyes flashed. Errington was interested, but not surprised : 
the old bonders declaration of his creed seemed eminently 
fitted to his character. Lorimer’s face brightened, — here 
was a novelty — a man, who in all the conflicting storms of 
modern opinion, sturdily clung to the traditions of his 
forefathers. 

“ By Jove 1 ” he exclaimed eagerly, “ I think the worship 
of Odin would suit me perfectly 1 It’s a rousing, fighting 
sort of religion, — I’m positive it would make a man of me. 
Will you initiate me into the mysteries, Mr. Giildmar ? 
There’s a fellow in London who writes poetry on Indian 
subjects, and who, it is said, thinks Buddhism might satisfy 
his pious yearnings, — but I think Odin would be a per- 
sonage to command more respect than Buddha, — at any 
rate, I should like to try him. Will you give me a 
chance ? ” 

Olaf Giildmar smiled gravely, and rising from his seat, 
pointed to the western sky. 

“ See yonder threads of filmy white,” he said, “ that 
stretch across the wide expanse of blue I They are the 
lingering, fading marks of light clouds, — and even while 
we watch them, they shall pass and be no more. Such is 
the emblem of your life, young man — you that would, for 
an idle jest or pastime, presume to search into the mys- 
teries of Odin I For you they are not, — your spirit is not 
of the stern mould that waits for death as gladly as the 
bridegroom waits for the bride 1 The Christian heaven is 
an abode for girls and babes, — Valhalla is the place lor 


68 


TBELMA, 


men 1 I tell you, my creed is as divine in its origin as any 
that ever existed on the earth ! The Rainbow Bridge is a 
fairer pathway from death to life than the doleful Cross, — 
and better far the dark summoning eyes of a beauteous 
Valkyrie, than the grinning skull and cross-bones, the 
Christian emblem of mortality. Thelma thinks, — and her 
mother before her thought also, — that different as my way 
of belief is to the accepted new creeds of to-day, it will be 
all right with me in the next world — that I shall have as 
good a place in heaven as any Christian. It may be so, — 
I care not I But see you, — the key-note of all the civil- 
ization of to-day is discontent, while I, — thanks to the 
gods of my fathers, am happy, and desire nothing that I 
have not.” 

He paused and seemed absorbed. The young men watched 
his fine inspired features with lively interest. Thelma’s 
head was turned away from them so that her face was hid- 
den. By-and-by he resumed in quieter tones — 

“ Now, my lads, you know what we are — both of us ac- 
cursed in the opinion of the Lutheran community. My 
child belongs to the so-called idolatrous Church of Rome. 
I am one of the very last of the ‘ heathen barbarians,’ ” — 
and the old fellow smiled sarcastically, “ though, truth to 
tell, for a barbarian, I am not such a fool as some folks 
would have you think. If the snuffling Dyceworthy and I 
competed at a spelling examination, I’m pretty sure ’tis I 
would have the prize I But, as I said, — 3 ^ou know us, — 
and if our ways are likely to offend you, then let us part 
good friends before the swords are fairly drawn.” 

“ No sword will be drawn on my side, I assure you, sir,” 
said Errington, advancing and laying one hand on the 
bonders shoulder. “ I hope you will believe me when I say 
I shall esteem it an honor and a privilege to know more of 
you.” 

“ And though you won’t accept me as a servant of Odin,” 
added Lorimer, “ you really cannot prevent me from trying 
to make myself agreeable to you. I warn you, Mr. Giild- 
mar, I shall visit you pretty frequently I Such men as you 
are not often met with.” 

Olaf Giildmar looked surprised. “ You really mean it ? ” 
he said. “ Nothing that I have told you affects you? You 
still seek our friendship ? ” 

They both earnestly assured him that they did, and as 


TEE LAND OP TEE MIDNIOET SUN. 6 & 

they spoke Thelma rose from her low seat and faced them 
with a bright smile. 

“ Do you know,” she said, “ that you are the first people 
who, on visiting us once, have ever cared to come again ? 
Ah, you look surprised, but it is so, is it not, father ? ” 

Guldmar nodded a grave assent. 

“ Yes,” she continued demurely, counting on her little 
white fingers, “ we are three things — first, we are accursM ; 
secondly, we have the evil eye ; thirdly, we are not respect- 
able I ” 

And she broke into a peal of laughter, ringing and 
sweet as’ a chime of bells. The young men joined her in 
it ; and, still with an amused expression on her lovely face, 
leaning her head back against a cluster of pale roses, she 
went on — 

“ My father dislikes Mr. Dyceworthy so much, because he 
wants to — to — oh, what is it they do to savages, father ? 
Yes, I know, — to convert us, — to make us Lutherans. And 
when he finds it all no use, he is angry ; and, though he is 
so religious, if he hears any one telling some untruth about 
us in Bosekop, he will add another thing equally untrue, 
and so it grows and grows, and — why ! what is the mat- 
ter with you ? ” she exclaimed in surprise as Errington 
scowled and clenched his fist in a peculiarly threatening 
manner. 

“ I should like to knock him down I ” he said briefly under 
his breath. 

Old Guldmar laughed and looked at the young baronet 
approvingly. 

“ Who knows, who knows! ” he said cheerfully. “ You 
may do it some day ! It will be a good deed ! I will do it 
myself if he troubles me much more. And now let us make 
some arrangement with you. When will you come and see 
us again ? ” 

“ You must visit me first,” said Sir Philip quickly. “ If 
you and your daughter will honor me with your company 
to-morrow, I shall be proud and pleased. Consider the 
yacht at your service.” 

Thelma, resting among the roses, looked across at him 
with serious, questioning eyes — eyes that seemed to be ask- 
ing his intentions towards both her and her father. 

Guldmar accepted the invitation at once, and, the hour 
for their visit next day being fixed and agreed upon, the 
young men began to take their leave. As Errington 


70 


TBEL3rA. 


clasped Thelma’s hand in farewell, he made a bold venture. 
He touched a rose that hung just above her head almost 
dropping on her hair. 

“ May I have it ? ” he asked in a low tone. 

Their eyes met. The girl flushed deeply, and then grew 
pale. She broke off the flower and gave it to him, — then 
turned to Lorimer to say good-bye. They left her then, 
standing under the porch, shading her brow with one hand 
from the glittering sunlight, as she watched them descend- 
ing the winding path to the shore, accompanied by her 
father, who hospitably insisted on seeing them into their 
boat. They looked back once or twice, always to see the 
slender, tall white flgure standing there like an angel rest- 
ing in a bower of roses, with the sunshine flashing on a 
golden crown of hair. At the last in the pathway Philip 
raised his hat and waved it, but whether she condescended 
to wave her hand in answer he could not see. 

Left alone, she sighed, and went slowly into the house to 
resume her spinning. Hearing the whirr of the wheel, the 
servant Britta entered. 

“You are not going in the boat, Broken ? ” she asked in 
a tone of mingled deference and affection. 

Thelma looked up, smiled faintly, and shook her head in 
the negative. 

“ It is late, Britta, and I am tired.” 

.And the deep blue eyes had an intense dreamy light 
within them as they wandered from the wheel to the wide- 
open window, and rested on the majestic darkness of the 
overshadowing, solemn pines. 


CHAPTER VIL 

* ‘ In mezzo del mio core c’ ^ una spina ; 

Non c’ d barbier che la possa levare, — 

Solo il mio amore colla sua manina.” 

Mime Popolari. 

Errington and Lorimer pulled away across the Fjord in 
a silence that lasted for many minutes. Old Giildmar stood 
on the edge of his little pier to watch them out of sight. 
So, till their boat turned the sharp corner of the protecting 
rock, that hid the landing-place from view, they saw his 
picturesque figure and gleaming silvery hair outlined 
clearly against the background of the sky — a sky now 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 71 

tenderly flushed with pink like the inside of a delicate shell. 
When they could no longer perceive him they still rowed on 
speaking no word, — the measured, musical plash of the oars 
through the smooth, dark olive-green water alone breaking 
the stillness around them. There was a curious sort of 
hushed breathlessness in the air ; fantastic, dream-like lights 
and shadows played on the little wrinkling waves ; sudden 
flushes of crimson came and went in the western horizon, 
and over the high summits of the surrounding mountains 
mysterious shapes, formed of purple and grey mist, rose up 
and crept softly downwards, winding in and out deep 
valleys and dark ravines, like wandering spirits sent on 
some secret and sorrowful errand. After a while Errington 
said almost vexedly — 

“ Are you struck dumb, George ? Haven’t you a word 
to say to a fellow ? ” 

“ Just what I was about to ask yow,’’ replied Lorimer 
carelessly ; “ and I was also going to remark that we 
hadn’t seen 3mur mad friend up at the Giildmar residence.” 

“ No. Yet I can’t help thinking he has something to do 
with them, all the same,” returned Errington meditatively. 

I tell you, he swore at me by some old Norwegian infernal 
place or other. I dare say he’s an Odin worshipper, too. 
But never mind him. What do you think of her f ” 

Lorimer turned lazily round in the boat, so that he faced 
his companion. 

“ Well, old fellow, if you ask me frankly, I think she is 
the most beautiful woman I ever saw, or, for that matter, 
ever heard of. And I am an impartial critic — perfectly im- 
partial.” 

And, resting on his oar, he dipped the blade musingly in 
and out of the water, watching the bright drops fall with 
an oil-like smoothness as they trickled from the polished 
wood and glittered in the late sunshine like vari-colored 
jewels. Then he glanced curiously at Philip, who sat 
silent, but whose face was very grave and earnest, — even 
noble, with that shade of profound thought upon it. He 
looked like one who had suddenly accepted a high trust, in 
which there was not only pride, but tenderness. Lorimer 
shook himself together, as he himself would have expressed 
it, and touched his friend’s arm half-playfully. 

“ You’ve met the king’s daughter of Norroway after all, 
Phil ; ” and his light accents had a touch of sadness in 
them ; “ and you’ll have to bring her home, as the old song 


72 


THELMA. 


says. I believe the ‘eligible* is caught at last. The 
‘ woman ’ of the piece has turned up, and your chum must 
play second fiddle — eh, old boy ? ” 

Errington fiushed hotly, but caught Lorimer’s hand and 
pressed it with tremendous fervor. 

“ By Jove, I’ll wring it off 5 ^our wrist if you talk in 
that fashion, George I ” he said, with a laugh. “ You’ll al- 
ways be the same to me, and you know it. I tell you,” 
and he pulled his moustache doubtfully, “ I don’t know 
quite what’s the matter with me. That girl fascinates me ! 
I feel a fool in her presence. Is that a sign of being in 
love I wonder?” 

“ Certainly not 1 ” returned George promptly ; “ for 1 
feel a fool in her presence, and I’m not in love.” 

“ How do j'^ou know that ? ” And Errington glanced at 
him keenly and inquiringly. 

“ How do I know ? Come, I like that I Have I studied 
myself all these years for nothing ? Look here,” — and he 
carefully drew out the little withering bunch of daisies he 
had purloined — “ these are for you. I knew you wanted 
them, though you hadn’t the impudence to pick them up, 
and I had. I thought you might like to put them under 
your pillow, and all tliat sort of thing, because if one is 
resolved to become love-lunatic, one may as well do the 
thing properly out and out, — I hate all half-measures. 
Now, if the remotest thrill of sentiment were in me, you 
can understand, I hope, that wild horses would not have 
torn this adorable posy from my possession! I should 
have kept it, and you would never have known of it,” and 
he laughed softly. “ Take it, old fellow ! You’re rich 
now, with the rose she gave you besides. What is all your 
wealth compared with the sacred preciousness of such 
blossoms I There, don’t look so awfully estactic, or I shall 
be called upon to ridicule you in the interests of common 
sense. So you’re in love with the girl at once, and have 
done with it. Don’t beat about the bush 1 ” 

“ I’m not sure about it,” said Philip, taking the daisies 
gratefully, however, and pressing them in his pocket-book. 
“ I don’t believe in love at first sight! ” 

“ I do,” returned Lorimer decidedly. “ Love is elec- 
tricity. Two telegrams are enough to settle the business, 
— one from the eyes of the man, the other from those of 
the woman. You and Miss Giildmar must have exchanged 
a dozen such messages at least.’* 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


73 


“And you?^’ inquired Errington persistently. “You 
had the same chance as myself.” 

George shrugged his shoulders. “ My dear boy, there 
are no wires of communication between the Sun-angel and 
myself ; nothing but a blank, innocent landscape, over 
which perhaps some day, the mild lustre of friendship may 
beam. The girl is beautiful — extraordinarily so; but I’m 
not a ‘ man o’ wax,’ as Juliet’s gabbling old nurse says — 
not in the least impressionable.” 

And forthwith he resumed his oar, saying briskly as he 
did so — 

“ Phil, do you know those other fellows must be swear- 
ing at us pretty forcibly for leaving them so long with 
Dyceworthy. We’ve been away two hours I ” 

“ Not possible! ” cried Errington, amazed, and wielding 
his oar vigorously. “ They’ll think me horribly rude. By 
Jove, they must be bored to death 1 ” 

And, stimulated by the thought of the penance their 
friends were enduring, they sent the boat spinning swiftly 
through the water, and rowed as though they were trying 
for a race, when they were suddenly pulled up by a loud 
“ Halloo! ” and the sight of another boat coming slowly 
out from Bosekop, wherein two individuals were standing 
up, gesticulating violently. 

“ There they are ! ” exclaimed Lorimer. “ I say, Phil, 
they’ve hired a special tub, and are coming out to us.” 

So it proved. Duprfez and Macfarlane had grown tired 
of waiting for their truant companions, and had taken the 
first clumsy wherry that presented itself, rowed by an even 
clumsier Norwegian boatman, whom they had been com- 
pelled .to engage also, as he would not let his ugly punt 
out of his sight, for fear some harm might chance to befall 
it. Thus attended, they were on their way back to the 
yacht. With a few long, elegant strokes, Errington and 
Lorimer soon brought their boat alongside, and their 
friends gladly jumped into it, delighted to be free of the 
company of the wooden-faced mariner they had so reluc- 
tantly hired, and who now, on receiving his fee, paddled 
awkwardly away in his ill-constructed craft, without either 
a word of thanks or salutation. Errington began to apol- 
ogize at once for his long absence, giving as a reason for it, 
the necessity he found himself under of making a call on 
some persons of importance in the neighborhood, whom he 
had, till now, torgotten. 


74 


THEUIA. 


“ My good Phil-eep I ” cried Dupree, in his cheery sing- 
song accent, “ why apologize? We have amused ourselves 1 
Our dear Sandy has a vein of humor that is astonishing I 
We have not wasted our time. Nol We have made Mr. 
Dyceworthy our slave ; we have conquered him ; we have 
abased him I He is what we please, — he is for all gods or 
for no god, — just as we pull the string 1 In plain words, 
mon cher, that amiable religious is drunk ! ” 

“ Drunk I ” cried Errington and Lorimer together. 
“ Jove ! you don’t mean it ? ” 

Macfarlane looked up with a twinkle of satirical humor 
in his deep-set grey eyes. 

“ Ye see,” he said seriously, “ the Lacrima, or Papist 
wine as he calls it, was strong — we got him to take a good 
dose o’t^a vera fair dose indeed. Then, doun he sat, an’ 
fell to convairsing vera pheelosophically o’ mony things, — 
it wad hae done ye gude to hear him, — he Tvas fair lost in 
the mazes o’ his metapheesics, for twa flies took a bit saun- 
ter through the pleasant dewy lanes o’ his forehead, an’ he 
never raised a finger to send them awa’ aboot their beezi- 
ness. Then I thoct I wad try him wi’ the whusky — I had 
ma pocket flask wi’ me — an’ O mon I he was sairly glad and 
gratefu’ for the first snack o’t ! He said it was deevilish 
fine stuff, an’ so he took ane drappikie, an’ anither drappikie, 
and yet anither drappikie,” — Sandy’s accent got more and 
more pronounced as he went on — “ an’ after a bit, his heed 
dropt doun, an’ he took a wee snoozle of a minute or twa, 

. — then he woke up in a’ his strength an’ just grappit the 
flask in his twa hands an’ took the hale o’t off at a grand, 
rousin’ gulp I Ma certes I after it ye shuld ha’ seen him 
laughin’ like a feekless fule, an’ rubbin’ an’ rubbin’ his 
heed, till his hair was like the straw kicked roond by a mad 
coo 1 ” 

Lorimer lay back in the stern of the boat and laughed 
uproariously at this extraordinary picture, as did the 
others. 

“ But that is not all,” said Duprfez, with delighted mis- 
chief sparkling in his wicked little dark eyes ; “ the dear 
religious opened his heart to us. He spoke thickly, but we 
could understand him. He was very impressive I He is 
quite of my opinion. He says all religion is nonsense, fable, 
imposture, — Man is the only god, Woman his creature and 
subject. Again, — man and woman conjoined, make up di- 
vinity, necessity, law. He was quite clear on that point. 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 75 

Why did he preach what he did not believe, we asked ? He 
almost wept I He replied that the children of this world 
liked fairy-stories and he was paid to tell them. It was his 
bread and butter, — would we wish him to have no bread 
and butter ? We assured him so cruel a thought had no 
place in our hearts I Then he is amorous — yes I the good 
fat man is amorous I He would have become a priest, but 
on close examination of the confessionals he saw there was 
no possibility of seeing, much less kissing a lady penitent 
through the grating. So he gave up that idea ! In his 
form of faith he can kiss, he says, — he doa^ kiss ! — always 
a holy kiss, of course ! He is so ingenuous, — so delight- 
fully frank, it is quite charming I ” 

They laughed again. Sir Philip looked somewhat dis' 
gusted. 

“ What an old brute he must be 1 ” he said. “ Somebody 
ought to kick him — a holy kick, of course, and therefore 
more intense and forcible than other kicks.” 

“ You begin, Phil,” laughed Lorimer, “ and we’ll all follow 
suit. He’ll be like that Indian in ‘ Yathek ’ who rolled him- 
self into a ball ; no one could resist kicking as long as the 
ball bounded before them, — we, similarly, shall not be able 
to resist, if Dyceworthy’s fat person is once left at our 
mercy.” 

“ That was a grand bit he told us, Errington,” resumed 
Macfarlane. “ Ye should ha’ heard him talk aboot his love- 
affair I . . . the saft jelly of a man that he is, to be 

making up to ony woman.” 

At that moment they ran alongside of the Eulalie and 
threw up their oars. 

“ Stop a bit,” said Errington. “ Tell us the rest on 
board.” 

The ladder was lowered ; they mounted it, and their boat 
was hauled up to its place. 

“ Go on I ” said Lorimer, throwing himself lazily into a 
deck arm-chair and lighting a cigar, while the others leaned 
against the yacht rails and followed his example. “ Go on, 
Sandy — this is fun I Dyceworthy’s amours must be amus- 
ing. I suppose he’s after that ugly wooden block of a 
woman we saw at his house who is so zealous for the ‘ true 
gospel ’ ? ” 

“Not a bit of it,” replied Sandy, with immense gravity. 
“ The auld Silenus has better taste. He says there’s a 
young lass running after him, fit to break her heart aboot 


76 


THELMA. 


him, — puir thing, she must have vera little choice o’ men 1 
He hasna quite made up his mind, though he admeets she’s 
as fine a lass as ony man need require. He’s sorely 
afraid she has set herself to catch him, as he says she’s an 
eye like a warlock for a really strong good-looking fellow 
like himself,” and Macfarlane chuckled audibly. “ Maybe 
he’ll take pity on her, maybe he wont ; the misguided 
lassie will be sairly teazed by him from a’ he tauld us in his 
cups. He gave us her name, — the oddest in a’ the warld for 
sure, — I canna just remember it.” 

“ I can,” said Duprez glibly. “ It struck me as quaint 
and pretty — Thelma Giildmar.” 

Errington started so violently, and flushed so deeply, 
that Lorimer was afraid of some rash outbreak of wrath on 
his part. But he restrained himself by a strong effort. He 
merely took his cigar from his mouth and pufied a light 
cloud of smoke into the air before replying, then he said 
coldly — 

“ I should say Mr. Dyceworthy, besides being a drunk- 
ard, is a most consummate liar. It so happens that the 
Giildmars are the very people I have just visited, — highly 
superior in every way to anybody we have yet met in Nor- 
way. In fact, Mr. and Miss Giildmar will come on board 
to-morrow. I have invited them to dine with us ; you will 
then be able to judge for yourselves whether the young lady 
is at all of the description Mr. Dyceworthy gives of her.” 

Duprez and Macfarlane exchanged astonished looks. 

“ Are ye quite sure,” the latter ventured to remark cau- 
tiously, “ that ye’re prudent in what ye have done ? Re- 
member ye have asked no pairson at a’ to dine with ye as 
yet, — it’s a vera sudden an’ exceptional freak o’ hospitality.” 

Errington smoked on peacefully and made no answer. 
Duprez hummed a verse of a French chansonnette under his 
breath and smiled. Lorimer glanced at him with a lazy 
amusement. 

“ Unburden yourself, Pierre, for heaven’s sake ! ” he said. 
“ Your mind is as uncomfortable as a loaded camel. Let it 
lie down, while you take off its packages, one by one, and 
reveal their contents. In short, what’s up ? ” 

Duprez made a rapid, expressive gesture with his hands. 

“ Mon cher, I fear to displease Phil-eep 1 He has invited 
these people ; they are coming , — bienf there is no moie to 
say.” 

“ I disagree with ye,” interposed Macfarlane. I think 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


77 


Errington should hear what we ha’ heard ; it’s fair an’ just 
to a mon that he should understand what sort o’ folk are 
gaun to pairtake wi’ him at his table. Ye see, Errington, 
ye should ha’ thought a wee, before inviting pairsons o’ un- 
settled an’ dootful chairacter ” 

“ Who says they are ? ” demanded Errington half-angrily. 
“ The drunken Dyceworthy ? ” 

“ He was no sae drunk at the time he tauld us,” persisted 
Macfarlane in his most obstinate, most dictatorial manner. 

“ Ye see, it’s just this way ” 

“ Ah, pardon ! ” interrupted Dupr^z briskly. Our dear 
Sandy is an excellent talker, but he is a little slow. Thus 
it is, mon cher Errington. This gentleman named Giild- 
mar had a most lovely wife — a mysterious lady, with an 
evident secret. The beautiful one was never seen in the 
church or in any town or village ; she was met sometimes 
on hills, by rivers, in valleys, carrying her child in her 
arms. The people grew afraid of her ; but, now, see what 
happens I Suddenly, she appears no more ; some one ven- 
tures to ask this Monsieur Guldmar, ‘ What has become of 
Madame ? ’ His answer is brief. ‘ She is dead I ’ Satis- 
factory so far, yet not quite ; for, Madame being dead, then 
what has become of the corpse of Madame ? It was never 
seen, — no coffin was ever ordered, — and apparently it was 
never buried I Bien ! What follows ? The good people 
of Bosekop draw the only conclusion possible — Monsieur 
Guldmar, who is said to have a terrific temper, killed 
Madame and made away with her body. Voila ! 

And Duprez waved his hand with an air of entire satis- 
faction. 

Errington’s brow grew sombre. “ This is the story, is 
it ? ” he asked at last. 

“ It is enough, is it not ? ” laughed Duprez. “ But, after 

all, what matter ? It will be novel to dine with a mur ” 

“ Stop I ” said Philip fiercely, with so much authority 
that the sparkling Pierre was startled. “ Call no man by 
such a name till you know he deserves it. If Guldmar was 
suspected, as you say, why didn’t somebody arrest him on 
the charge ? ” 

“ Because, ye see,” replied Macfarlane, “ there was not 
sufficient proof to warrant such a proceeding. Moreover, 
the actual meenister of the parish declared it was a’ richt, 
an’ said this Guldmar was a mon o’ vera queer notions, an’ 


78 


THELMA. 


maybe, had buried his wife wi’ certain ceremonies peculiar 

to himself What’s wrong wi’ ye now ? ” 

For a light had flashed on Errington’s mind, and with the 
quick comprehension it gave him, his countenance cleared. 
He laughed. 

“ That’s very likely,” he said ; “ Mr. Giildmar is a char- 
acter. He follows the faith of Odin, and not even Dyce- 
worthy can convert him to Christianity.” 

Macfarlane stared with a sort of stupefied solemnity. 

“ Mon 1 ” he exclaimed, “ ye never mean to say there’s an 
actual puir human creature that in this blessed, enlightened 
nineteenth century of ours, is so far misguidit as to worship 
the fearfu’ gods o’ the Scandinavian meethology ? ” 

“ Ah I ” yawned Lorimer, “ you may wonder away, Sandy,' 
but it’s true enough I Old Giildmar is an Odinite. In this 
blessed, enlightened nineteenth century of ours, when 
Christians amuse themselves by despising and condemning 
each other, and thus upsetting all the precepts of the Mas- 
ter they profess to follow, there is actually a man who sticks 
to the traditions of his ancestors. Odd, isn’t it ? In this 
delightful, intellectual age, when more than half of us are 
discontented with life and yet don’t want to die, there is a 
fine old gentleman, living beyond the Arctic circle, who is 
perfectly satisfied with his existence — not only that, he 
thinks death the greatest glory that can befall him. Com- 
fortable state of things altogether I I’m half inclined to 
be an Odinite too.” 

Sandy still remained lost in astonishment. “ Then ye 
don’t believe that he made awa’ wi’ his wife ? ” he inquired 
slowly. 

“ Not in the least ! ” returned Lorimer decidedly ; 
neither will you, to-morrow, when 3^011 see him. He’s a 
great deal better up in literature than you are, my boy, I’d 
swear, judging from the books he has. And when he men- 
tioned his wife, as he did once, }"ou could see in his face he 
had never done her any harm. Besides, his daughter — ” 

“ Ah 1 but I forgot,” interposed Duprez again. “ The 
daughter, Thelma, was the child the mysteriously vanished 
lady carried in her arms, wandering with it all about the 
woods and hills. After her disappearance, another thing 
extraordinary happens. The child also disappears, and 
Monsieur Giildmar lives alone, avoided carefully by every 
respectable person. Suddenly the child returns, grown to 
be nearly a woman — and they say, lovely to an almost im- 


TEE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


79 


possible extreme. She lives with her father. She, like her 
strange mother, never enters a chnrch, town, or village — 
nowhere, in fact, where persons are in any numbers. Three 
years ago, it appears, she vanished again, but came back at 
the end of ten months, lovelier than ever. Since then she 
has remained quiet — composed — but always apart, — she 
may disappear at any moment. Droll, is it not, Errington ? 
and the reputation she has is natural I ” 

“Pray state it,” said Philip, ^with freezing coldness. 
“ The reputation of a woman is nothing nowadays. Fair 
game — go on ! ” 

But his face was pale, and his eyes blazed dangerously. 
Almost unconsciously his hand toyed with the rose Thelma 
had given him, that still ornamented his button-hole. 

“ Mon Dieu ! ” cried Dupr^z in amazement. “ But look 
not at me like that I It seems to displease you, to put you 
en fureur^ what I say ! It is not my story, — it is not I, — 
I know not Mademoiselle Giildmar. But as her beauty is 
considered superhuman, they say it is the devil who is her 
parfumeur, her coiffeur and who sees after her complex- 
ion ; in brief, she is thought to be a witch in full practice, 
dangerous to life and limb.” 

Errington laughed loudly, he was so much relieved. 

“ Is that all ? ” he said with light contempt. “ By Jove I 
what a pack of fools there must be about here, — ugly fools 
too, if they think beauty is a sign of witchcraft. I wonder 
Dycewort^’' isn’t scared out of his skin if he positively 
thinks the so-called witch is setting her cap at him.” 

“ Ah, but he means to convairt her,” said Macfarlane se- 
riously. “ To draw the evil oot o’ her, as it were. He said 
he wad do’t by fair means or foul.” 

Something in these latter words struck Lorimer, for, rais- 
ing himself in his seat, he asked, “ Surely Mr. Dyceworthy, 
with all his stupidity, doesn’t carry it so far as to believe in 
witchcraft ? ” 

“ Oh, indeed he does,” exclaimed Duprez ; “ he believes 
in it d la lettre ! He has Bible authority for his belief He 
is very firm — firmest when drunk I ” And he laughed 
gaily. 

Errington muttered something not very flattering to Mr. 
Dyceworthy’s intelligence, which escaped the hearing ol 
his friends ; then he said — 

“ Come along, all of yon, down into the saloon. We 
want something to eat. Let the Giildmars alone j I’m not 


80 


THELMA, 


a bit sorry I’ve asked them to come to-morrow. I believe 
you’ll all like them immensely.” 

They all descended the stair-way leading to the lower 
part of the yacht, and Macfarlane asked as he followed his 
host — 

“ Is the lass vera bonnie did ye say ? ” 

“ Bonnie’s not the word for it this time,” said Lorimer^ 
coolly answering instead of Errington. “ Miss Giildmar is 
a magnificent woman. You never saw such a one, Sandy, 
my boy ; she’ll make you sing small with one look ; she’ll 
wither you up into a kippered herring I And as for you, 
Duprez,” and he regarded the little Frenchman critically, 
“ let me see, — you may possibly reach up to her shoulder, 
— certainly not beyond it.” 

“Pas possible I ” cried Duprez. “ Mademoiselle is a 
giantess.” 

“ She needn’t be a giantess to overtop you, mon ami,^. 
laughed Lorimer with a lazy shrug. “ By Jove, I am 
sleepy, Errington, old boy; are we never going to bed? 
It’s no good waiting till it’s dark here, you know.” 

“ Have something first,” said Sir Philip, seating himself 
at the saloon table, where his steward had laid out a tasty 
cold collation. “ We’ve had a good deal of climbing about 
and rowung ; it’s taken it out of us a little.” 

Thus hospitably adjured, they took their places, and 
managed to dispose of an excellent supper. The meal con- 
cluded, Duprez helped himself to a tiny liqueur glass of 
Chartreuse, as a wind-up to the exertions of the day, a mild 
luxury in which the others joined him, with the exception 
of Macfarlane, who was wont to declare that a “ mon with- 
out his whusky was nae mon at a’,” and who, therefore, 
persisted in burning up his interior mechanism with alcohol 
in spite of the doctrines of hj" giene, and was now absorbed 
in the work of mixing his lemon, sugar, hot water, and 
poison — his usual preparation for a night’s rest. 

Lorimer, usually conversational, watched him in ab- 
stracted silence. Rallied on this morose humor, he rose, 
shook himself like a retriever, yawned, and sauntered to 
the piano that occupied a dim corner of the saloon, and 
began to play with that delicate, subtle touch, which, 
though it does not always mark the brilliant pianist, distin- 
guishes the true lover of music, to whose ears a rough 
thump on the instrument, or a false note would be most ex- 
quisite agony. Lorimer had no pretense to musical talent; 


THE LAHD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


81 


when asked, he confessed he could “ strum a little,” and he 
hardly seemed to see the evident wonder and admiration he 
awakened in the minds of many to whom such “ strum- 
ming ” as his was infinitely more delightful than more 
practiced, finished playing. Just now he seemed undecided, 
— he commenced a dainty little prelude of Chopin’s, then 
broke suddenly off, and wandered into another strain, wild, 
pleading, pitiful, and passionate, — a melody so weird and 
dreamy that even the stolid Macfarlane paused in his toddy- 
sipping, and Duprez looked round in some wonderment. 

“ Gomme c^est beau, (a ! ” he murmured. 

Errington said nothing ; he recognized the tune as that 
which Thelma had sung at her spinning-wheel, and his bold 
bright eyes grew pensive and soft, as the picture of the fair 
face and form rose up again before his mind. Absorbed in 
a reverie, he almost started when Lorimer ceased playing, 
and said lightly — 

“ By-bye, boys ! I’m off to bed 1 Phil, don’t wake me so 
abominably early as you did this morning. If you do, 
friendship can hold out no longer — we must part ! ” 

“ All right ! ” laughed Errington good-humoredly, watch- 
ing his friend as he sauntered out of the saloon ; then see- 
ing Duprez and Macfarlane rise from the table, he added 
courteously, “ Don’t hurry away on Lorimer’s account, you 
two. I’m not in the least sleepy, — I’ll sit up with you to 
any hour.” 

“ It is droll to go to bed in broad daylight,” said Duprez. 

But it must be done. Cher Philippe, your eyes are 
heavy. ‘ To bed, to bed,’ as the excellent Madame Macbeth 
says. Ah ! quelle femme ! What an exciting wife she 
was for a man ? Come, let us follow our dear Lorimer, — 
his music was delicious. Good night or good morning ? 
... I know not which it is in this strange land where 
the sun shines always 1 It is confusing ! ” 

They shook hands and separated. Errington, however, 
unable to compose his mind to rest, went into his cabin 
merely to come out of it again and betake himself to the 
deck, where he decided to walk up and down till he felt 
sleepy. He wished to be alone with his own thoughts for 
awhile — to try and resolve the meaning of this strange new 
emotion that possessed him, — a feeling that was half pleas- 
ing, half painful, and that certainly moved him to a sort of 
shame. A man, if he be strong and healthy, is always more 
or less ashamed when Love, with a singly effort, proves him 


82 


THELMA. 


to be weaker than a blade of grass swaying in the wind 
What I all his dignity, all his resoluteness, all his authority 
swept down by the light touch of a mere willow wand ? for 
the very sake of his own manhood and self-respect, he can- 
not help but be ashamed I It is as though a little nude, 
laughing child mocked at a lion’s strength, and made him a 
helpless prisoner with a fragile daisy chain. So the god 
Eros begins his battles, which end in perpetual victory, — 
first fear and shame, — then desire and passion, — then con- 
quest and possession. And afterwards ? ah 1 . . . after- 

wards the pagan deity is powerless, — a higher God, a 
grander force, a nobler creed must carry Love to its 
supreme and best fulfillment. 


CHAPTER YIII. 

“ Le vent qui vient a travers la montagne 
M’a rendu fou ! ” 

Victor Hugo. 

It was half an hour past midnight. Sir Philip was left 
in absolute solitude to enjoy his meditative stroll on deck, 
for the full radiance of light that streamed over the sea and 
land was too clear and brilliant to necessitate the attend- 
ance of any of the sailors for the purpose of guarding the 
Eulalie. She was safely anchored and distinctly visible to 
all boats or fishing craft crossing the Fjord, so that unless 
a sudden gale should blow, which did not seem probable in 
the present state of the weather, there was nothing for the 
men to do that need deprive them of their lawful repose. 
Errington paced up and down slowly, his yachting shoes 
making no noise, even as they left no scratch on the spot- 
less white deck, that shone in the night sunshine like pol- 
ished silver. The Fjord was very calm, — on one side it 
gleamed like a pool of golden oil in which the outline of 
the Eulalie was precisely traced, her delicate masts and 
spars and drooping flag being drawn in black lines on the 
yellow water as though with a finely pointed pencil. There 
was a curious light in the western sky ; a thick bank of 
clouds, dusky brown in color, were swept together and 
piled one above the other in mountainous ridges, that rose 
up perpendicularl}" from the very edge of the sea-line, while 
over their dark summits a glimpse of the sun, like a giant’s 
eye, looked forth, darting dazzling descending rays through 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


83 


the sullen smoke-like masses, tinging them with metallic 
green and copper hues as brilliant and shifting as the bris- 
tling points of lifted spears. Away to the south, a solitary 
wreath of purple vapor floated slowly as though lost from 
some great mountain height ; and through its faint, half 
disguising veil the pale moon peered sorrowfully, like a 
dying prisoner lamenting joy long past, but unforgotten. 

A solemn silence reigned ; and Errington, watching sea 
and sky, grew more and more absorbed and serious. The 
scornful words of the proud old Olaf Guldmar rankled in 
his mind and stung him. “ An idle trifler with time — an 
aimless wanderer I ” Bitter, but, after all, true I He looked 
back on his life with a feeling kin to contempt. What had 
he done that was at all worth doing ? He had seen to the 
proper management of his estates, — well I any one with a 
grain of self-respect and love of independence w^ould do the 
same. He had travelled and amused himself, — he had 
studied languages and literature, — he had made many 
friends ; but after all said and done, the bonders cutting ob- 
servations had described him correctly enough. The do- 
nothing, care-nothing tendency, common to the very wealthy 
in this age, had crept upon him unconsciously ; the easy, 
cool, indifferent nonchalance common to men of his class 
and breeding was habitual with him, and he had never 
thought it worth while to exert his dormant abilities. Why 
then, should he now begin to think it was time to reform 
all this, — to 2*ouse himself to an effort, — to gain for himself 
some honor, some distinction, some renown that should 
mark him out as different to other men ? why was he sud- 
denly seized with an insatiate desire to be something more 
than a mere “ mushroom knight, a fungus of nobility ” — 
why ? if not to make himself worthy of — ah I There he had 
struck a suggestive key-note ! Worthy of what ? of whom ? 
There was no one in all the world, excepting perhaps Lori- 
mer, who cared what became of Sir Philip Errington, Baro- 
net, in the future, so long as he would, for the present, en- 
tertain and.feast his numerous acquaintances and give them 
all the advantages, social and political, his wealth could so 
easily obtain. Then why, in the name of well-bred indo- 
lence, should he muse with such persistent gloom, on his 
general unworthiness at this particular moment? Was it 
because this Norwegian maiden’s grand blue eyes had met 
his with such beautiful trust and candor ? 

He had known man^ women, queens of society, titled 


84 


THELMA. 


beauties, brilliant actresses, sirens of the world with all 
their witcheries in full play, and he had never lost his self- 
possession or his heart ; with the loveliest of them he had 
always felt himself master of the situation, knowing that 
in their opinion he was always “ a catch,” “ an eligible,” 
and, therefore, well worth winning. Now, for the first time, 
he became aware of his utter insignificance, — this tall, fair 
goddess knew none of the social slang — and her fair, 
pure face, the mirror of a fair, pure soul, showed that 
the “ eligibility ” of a man from a pecuniary point of 
view was a consideration that would never present itself 
to her mind. What she would look at would be the 
man himself, — not his pocket. And, studied from such 
an exceptional height, — a height seldom climbed by modern 
marrying women, — Philip felt himself unworthy. It was 
a good sign ; there are great hopes of any man who is 
honestly dissatisfied with himself. Folding his arms, he 
leaned idl}^ on the deck-rails, and looked gravely and mus- 
ingly down into the motionless water where the varied hues 
of the sky were clearly mirrored, — when a slight creaking, 
cracking sound was heard, as of some obstacle grazing 
against or bumping the side of the yacht. He looked, and 
saw, to his surprise, a small rowing boat close under the 
gunwale, so close indeed that the slow motion of the tide 
heaved it every now and then into a jerky collision with 
the lower framework of the Eulalie — a circumstance which 
explained the sound which had attracted his attention. The 
boat was not unoccupied — there was some one in it lying 
straight across the seats, with face turned upwards to the 
sky — and, walking noiselessly to a better post of observa- 
tion, Brrington’s heart beat with some excitement as he 
recognized the long, fair, unkempt locks, and eccentric attire 
of the strange personage who had confronted him in the 
cave — the crazy little man who had called himself “ Sigurd.” 
There he was, beyond a doubt, lying flat on his back with 
his eyes closed. Asleep or dead ? He might have been the 
latter, — his thin face was so pale and drawn, — his lips were 
so set and colorless. Errington, astonished to see him there, 
called softly — 

“ Sigurd I Sigurd ! ” There was no answer ; Sigurd’s 
form seemed inanimate — his e3^es remained fast shut. 

“ Is he in a trance ? ” thought Sir Philip wonderingly ; 

or has he fainted from some physical exhaustion ? ” 

He called again, but again received no reply. He now 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


85 


observed in the stern of tlie boat a large bunch of pansies, 
dark as velvet, and evidently freshly gathered, — proving 
that Sigurd had been wandering in the deep valleys and on 
the sloping sides of the hills, where these flowers may be 
frequently found in Norway during the summer. He began 
to feel rather uncomfortable, as he watched that straight stiff 
figure in the boat, and was just about to swing down the 
companion-ladder for the purpose of closer inspection, when 
a glorious burst of light streamed radiantly over the Fjord, 
— the sun conquered the masses of dark cloud that had 
striven to conceal his beauty, and now, — like a warrior 
clad in golden armor, surmounted and trod down his 
enemies, shining forth in all his splendor. With that rush 
of brilliant effulgence, the apparently lifeless Sigurd stirred, 
— he opened his eyes, and as they were turned upwards, he 
naturally, from his close vicinity to the side of the Eulalie^ 
met Errington’s gaze fixed inquiringly and somewhat anx- 
iously upon him. He sprang up with such sudden and 
fierce haste that his frail boat rocked dangerously and 
Philip involuntarily cried out — 

“ Take care ! ” 

Sigurd stood upright in his swaying skiff and laughed 
scornfully. 

Take care I ” he echoed derisively. “ It is you who 
should take care I You, — poor miserable moth on the edge 
of a mad storm I It is you to fear — not 1 1 See how the 
light rains over the broad sky. All for me 1 Yes, all the 
light, all the glory for me ; all the darkness, all the shame 
for you I ” 

Errington listened to these ravings with an air of patience 
and pitying gentleness, then he said with perfect coolness — 

“ You are quite right, Sigurd I You are always right, I 
am sure. Come up here and see me ; I won’t hurt you I 
Come along ! ” 

The friendly tone and gentle manner appeared to soothe 
the unhappy dwarf, for he stared doubtfully, then smiled, — 
and finally, as though acting under a spell, he took up an 
oar and propelled himself skillfully enough to the gangway, 
where Errington let down the ladder and with his own hand 
assisted his visitor to mount, not forgetting to fasten the boat 
safely to the steps as he did so. Once on deck, Sigurd 
gazed about him perplexedly. He had brought his bunch 
of pansies with him, and he fingered their soft leaves 
thoughtfully. Suddenly his eyes flashed. 


66 


THELMA. 


“ You are alone here ?” he asked abruptly. 

Fearing to scare his strange guest by the mentioil ol tiis 
companions, Errington answered simply — 

“ Yes, quite alone just now, Sigurd.” 

Sigurd took a step closer towards him. “ Are you not 
afraid ? ” he said in an awe-struck, solemn voice. 

Sir Philip smiled. “ I never was afraid of anything in 
my life I ” he answered. 

The dwarf eyed him keenly. “ You are not afraid,” he 
went on, “ that I shall kill you ? ” 

“ Not in the least,” returned Errington calmly. “ You 
would not do anything so foolish, my friend.” 

Sigurd laughed. “ Ha ha I You call me ‘ friend.’ You 
think that word a safeguard I I tell you, no ! There are 
no friends now ; the world is a great field of battle, — each 
man fights the other. There is no peace, — none anywhere I 
The wind fights with the forests ; you can hear them slash- 
ing and slaying all night long — when it is night — the long, 
long night I The sun fights with the sky, the light with 
the dark, and life with death. It is all a bitter quarrel ; 
none are satisfied, none shall know friendship any more ; 
it is too late I We cannot be friends ! ” 

“ W^'ell, have it your own way,” said Philip good- 
naturedly, wishing that Lorimer were awake to interview 
this strange specimen of human wit gone astray ; “ we’ll 
fight if you like. Anything to please you I ” 

“We are fighting,” said Sigurd with intense passion in 
his voice. “You may not know it; but I know it I I 
have felt the thrust of your sword; it has crossed mine. 
Stay I ” and his eyes grew vague and dreamy. “ Why was 
I sent to seek you out — let me think — let me think I ” 

And he seated himself forlornly on one of the deck 
chairs and seemed painfully endeavoring to put his 
scattered ideas in order. Errington studied him with a 
gentle forbearance ; inwardly he was very curious to know 
whether this Sigurd had any connection with the Gtild- 
mars, but he refrained from asking too many questions. 
He simply said in a cheery tone — 

“ Yes, Sigurd,— why did you come to see me ? I’m glad 
you did ; it’s very kind of you, but I don’t think you even 
know my name.” 

To his s-urprise, Sigurd looked up with a more settled 
and resolved expression of face, and answered almost as 
connectedly as any sane man could have done. 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


8 ? 


1 know your name very well,” he said in a low com- 
posed manner. “ You are Sir Philip Errington, a rich 
English nobleman. Fate led you to her grave — a grave 
that no strange feet have ever passed, save yours — and so 
I know you are the man for whom her spirit has waited, — 
she has brought you hither. How foolish to think she 
sleeps under the stone, when she is always awake and busy, 
— always at work opposing me I Yes, though I pray her 
to lie still, she will not ! ” 

His voice grew wild again, and Philip asked quietly — 

“ Of whom are you speaking, Sigurd? ” 

His steady tone seemed to have some compelling influ- 
ence on the confused mind of the half-witted creature, who 
answered readily and at once — 

“ Of whom should I speak but Thelma ? Thelma, the 

beautiful rose of the northern forest — Thelma ” 

He broke off abruptly with a long shuddering sigh, and 
rocking himself drearily to and fro, gazed wistfully out to 
the sea. Errington hazarded a guess as to the purpose of 
that coffin hidden in the shell cavern. 

‘‘ Do you mean Thelma living ? ... or Thelma dead ? ” 

“ Both,” answered Sigurd promptly. “ They are one 
and the same, — you cannot part them. Mother and child, 
— rose and rosebud I One walks the earth with the step 
of a queen, the other floats in the air like a silvery cloud; 
but I see them join and embrace and melt into each other’s 
arms till they unite in one form, fairer than the beauty of 
angels I And you — you know this as well as I do — you 
have seen Thelma, you have kissed the cup of friendship 
with her ; but remember ! — not with me — not with me I ” 
He started from his seat, and, running close up to Er- 
rington, laid one meagre hand on his chest. 

“ How strong you are, how broad and brave,” he eX' 
claimed with a sort of childish admiration. “ And can you 
not be generous too ? ” 

Errington looked down upon him compassionately. He 
had learned enough from his incoherent talk to clear up 
what had seemed a mystery. The scandalous reports con- 
cerning Olaf Giildmar were incorrect, — he had evidently 
laid the remains of his wife in the shell-cavern, for some rea- 
son connected with his religious belief, and Thelma’s visits 
to the sacred spot were now easy of comprehension. No 
doubt it was she who placed fresh flowers there every day, 
and kept the little lamp burning before the crucifix as a 


88 


THELMA. 


sign of the faith her departed mother had professed, and 
which she herself followed. But who was Sigurd, and 
what was he to the Giildmars ? Thinking this, he replied 
to the dwarf’s question a counter-inquiry. 

“ How shall I be generous, Sigurd ? Tell me I What 
can I do to please you ?” 

Sigurd’s wild blue eyes sparkled with pleasure. 

“ Ho ! ” he cried. “ You can go away, swiftly, swiftly 
over the seas, and the Altenfjord need know you no more I 
Spread your white sails ! ” and he pointed excitedly up to 
the tall tapering masts of the Eulalie. “ You are king 
here. Command and you are obeyed! Go from us, go! 
What is there here to delay you ? Our mountains are dark 
and gloomy, — the fields are wild and desolate, — there are 
rocks, glaciers and shrieking torrents that hiss like serpents 
gliding into the sea ! Oh, there must be fairer lands than 
this one, — lands where oceans and sky are like twin jewels 
set in one ring, — where there are sweet flowers and fruits 
and bright eyes to smile on you all day — yes ! for you are 
as a god in your strength and beauty — no woman will be 
cruel to you ! Ah ! say you will go away ! ” and Sigurd’s 
face was transfigured into a sort of pained beauty as he 
made his appeal. “ That is what I came to seek you for, 
— to ask you to set sail quickly and go, for why should 
you wish to destroy" me ? I have done you no harm as yet. 
Go ! — and Odin himself shall follow your path with bless- 
ings ! ” 

He paused, almost breathless with his own earnest plead- 
ing. Errington was silent. He considered the request a 
mere proof of the poor creature’s disorder. The very idea 
that Sigurd seemed to entertain of his doing him any 
harm, showed a reasonless terror and foreboding that was 
simply to be set down as caused by his unfortunate mental 
condition. To such an appeal there could be no satisfactory 
reply. To sail away from the Alten^ord and its now most 
fascinating attractions, because a madman asked him to do 
so, was a proposion impossible of acceptance, so Sir Philip 
said nothing. Sigurd, however, watcliing his face intently, 
saw, or thought he saw, a look of resolution in the English- 
man’s clear, deep grey eyes, — and with the startling quick- 
ness common to many whose brains, like musical instru- 
ments, are jarred, yet not quite unstrung, he grasped the 
meaning of that expression instantly. 

Ah I cruel and traitorous ! ” he exclaimed fiercely. 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


You will not go ; you are resolved to tear my heart out 
for your sport ! I have pleaded with you as one pleads 
with a king and all in vain — all in vain I You will not go ? 
Listen, see what you will do,” and he held up the hunch of 
purple pansies, while his voice sank to an almost feeble 
faintness. “ Look I ” and he fingered the flowers, “ look ! 

. . . they are dark and soft as a purple sky, — cool 

and dewy and fresh ; — they are the thoughts of Thelma ; 
such thoughts ! So wise and earnest, so pure and full of 
tender shadows ! — no hand has grasped them rudely, no 
rough touch has spoiled their smoothness ! They open full- 
faced to the sky, they never droop or languish ; they have 
no secrets, save the marvel of their beauty. Now you have 
come, you will have no pity, — one by one you will gather and 
play with her thoughts as though they were these blossoms, 
— your burning hand will mar their color, — they will wither 
and furl up and die, all of them, — and yon, — what will you 
care ? Nothing I no man ever cares for a flower that is 
withered, — not even though his own hand slew it.” 

The intense melancholy that vibrated through Sigurd’s 
voice touched his listener profoundly. Dimly he guessed 
that the stricken soul before him had formed the erroneous 
idea that he, Errington, had come to do some great wrong 
to Thelma or her belongings, and he pitied the poor creat- 
ure for his foolish self-torture. 

“ Listen to me, Sigurd,” he said, with a certain impera- 
tiveness ; “ I cannot promise 3^ou to go away, but I can 
promise that I will do no harm to you or to — to — Thelma. 
Will that content you ? ” 

Sigurd smiled vacantly and shook his head. He looked 
at the pansies wistfully and laid them down very gently on 
one of the deck benches. 

‘‘ I must go,” he said in a faint voice : — “ She is calling 
me.” 

“ Who is calling you ? ” demanded Errington astonished. 

“ She is,” persisted Sigurd, walking steadily to the gang- 
way. “ I can hear her 1 There are the roses to water, and 
the doves to feed, and many other things.” He looked 
steadily at Sir Philip, who, seeing he was bent on depar- 
ture, assisted him to descend the companion ladder into his 
little boat. “ You are sure you will not sail away ? ” 

Errington balanced himself lightly on the ladder and 
smiled. 


90 


THELMA. 


“ I am sure, Sigurd 1 I have no wish to sail away. Are 
you all right there ? ” 

He spoke cheerily, feeling in his own mind that it was 
scarcely safe for a madman to be quite alone in a cockle- 
shell of a boat on a deep Fjord, the shores of which were 
indented with dangerous rocks as sharp as the bristling 
teeth of fabled sea-monsters, but Sigurd answered him al- 
most contemptuously. 

“ All right I ” he echoed. “ That is what the English say 
always. All right I As if it were ever wrong with me, and 
the sea ! We know each other, — we do each other no harm. 
You may die on the sea, but I shall not 1 No, there is 
another way to Valhalla I ” 

“ Oh, I dare say there are no end of ways,” said Erring- 
ton good-temperedly, still poising himself on the ladder, 
and holding on to the side of his yacht, as he watched his 
late visitor take the oars and move off. “ Good-bye, Sigurd I 
Take care of yourself I Hope I shall see you again soon.” 

But Sigurd replied not. Bending to the oars, he rowed 
swiftly and strongly, and Sir Philip, pulling up the ladder 
and closing the gangway, saw the little skill* flying over the 
water like a bird in the direction of the Giildmar’s landing- 
place. He wondered again and again what relationship, if 
any, this half-crazed being bore to the bonde and his 
daughter. That he knew all about them was pretty evi- 
dent ; but how ? Catching sight of the pansies left on the 
deck bench, Errington took them, and, descending to the 
saloon, set them on the table in a tumbler of water. 

“ Thelma’s thoughts, the poor little fellow called them,” he 
mused, with a smile. “ A pretty fancy of his, and linked with 
the crazy imaginings of Ophelia too. ‘ There’s pansies, 
that’s for thoughts,’ she said, but Sigurd’s idea is different; 
he believes they are Thelma’s own thoughts in flower. ‘No 
rough touch has spoiled their smoothness,’ he declared ; he’s 
right there, I’m sure. And shall I ruffle the sweet leaves ; 
shall I crush the tender petals ? or shall I simply trans- 
form them, from pansies into roses, — from the dream of 
love, — into love itself? ” 

His eyes softened as he glanced at the drooping ros^ he 
wore, which Thelma herself had given him, and as he went 
to his sleeping cabin, he carefull}^ detached it from his but- 
ton-hole, and taking down a book, — one which he greatly 
prized, because it had belonged to his mother, — he prepared 
to press the flower within its leaves. It was the “ Imita- 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


91 


tion of Christ,” bound quaintly and fastened with silver 
clasps, and as he was about to lay his fragrant trophy on 
the first page that opened naturallj' of itself, he glanced at 
the words that there presented themselves to his eyes. 

“ Nothing is sweeter than love, nothing stronger, noth- 
ing higher, nothing wider, nothing more pleasant, nothing 
fuller or better in heaven or in earth ! ” And with a smile, 
and a warmer fiush of color than usual on his handsome 
face, he touched the rose lightly yet tenderly with his lips 
and shut it reverently within its sacred resting-place. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ Our manners are infinitely corrupted, and wonderfully incline to 
the worse; of our customs there are many barbarous and monstrous.” 

Montaigne. 

The next day was very warm and bright, and that pious 
Lutheran divine, the Reverend Charles Dyceworthy, was 
seriously encumbered by his own surplus flesh material, as 
he wearily rowed himself across the Fjord towards Olaf 
Giildmar’s private pier. As the perspiration bedewed his 
brow, he felt that Heaven had dealt with him somewhat 
too liberally in the way of fat — he was provided too amply 
with it ever to excel as an oarsman. The sun was burning 
hot, the water was smooth as oil, and very weighty — it 
seemed to resist every stroke of his clumsily wielded blades. 
Altogether it was hard, uncongenial work, — and, being 
rendered somewhat flabby and nerveless by his previous 
evening’s carouse with Macfarlane’s whisky, Mr. Dycewor- 
thy was in a plaintive and injured frame of mind. He was 
bound on a mission — a holy and edifying errand, which 
would have elevated any minister of his particular sect. 
He had found a crucifix with the name of Thelma engraved 
thereon, — he was now about to return it to the evident 
rightful owner, and in returning it, he purposed denounc- 
ing it as an emblem of the “ Scarlet Woman, that sitteth on 
the Seven Hills,” and threatening all those who dared to 
hold it sacred, as doomed to eternal torture, “ where the 
worm dieth not.” He had thought over all he meant to 
say ; he had planned several eloquent and rounded sen- 
tences, some of which he murmured placidly to himself as 
he propelled his slow boat along. . 

“ Yea I ” he observed in a mild sotto-voce — “ ye shall be 


92 


THELMA. 


cut off root and branch 1 Ye shall be scorched even as 
stubble, — and utterly destroyed.” Here he paused and 
mopped his streaming forehead with his clean perfumed 
handkerchief. “ Yea I ” he resumed peacefully, “ the wor- 
shippers of idolatrous images are accursed ; they shall 
have ashes for food and gall for drink ! Let them turn and 
repent themselves, lest the wrath of God consume them as 
straw whirled on the wind. . Repent 1 . . . or ye shall 

be cast into everlasting fire. Beauty shall avail not, learn- 
ing shah avail not, meekness shall avail not ; for the 

fire of hell is a searching, endless, destroying ” 

here Mr. Dyceworthy, by plunging one oar with too 
much determination into the watery depths, caught a 
crab, as the saying is, and fell violently backward 
in a somewhat undignified posture. Recovering him- 
self slowly, he looked about him in a bewildered way, 
and for the first time noticed the vacant, solitary appear- 
ance of the Fjord. Some object was missing ; he realized 
what it was immediately — the English ^^acht Eulalie was 
gone from her point of anchorage. 

“ Dear me ! ” said Mr. Dyceworthy, half aloud, “ what a 
very sudden departure I I wonder, now, if those young 
men have gone for good, or whether they are coming back 
again ? Pleasant fellows, very pleasant I flippant, perhaps, 
but pleasant.” 

And he smiled benevolently. He had no remembrance 
of what had occurred, after he had emptied young Macfar- 
lane’s flask of Glenlivet ; he had no idea that he had been 
almost carried from his garden into his parlor, and there 
flung on the sofa and left to sleep off the effects of his 
strong tipple ; least of all did he dream that he had be- 
trayed any of his intentions towards Thelma Giildmar, or 
given his religious opinions with such free and undisguised 
candor. Blissfully ignorant on these points, he resumed 
his refractory oars, and after nearly an hour of laborious ef- 
fort, succeeded at last in reaching his destination. Ar- 
rived at the little pier, he fastened up his boat, and with 
the lofty air of a thoroughly moral man, he walked deliber- 
ately up to the door of the bonders house. Contrary to 
custom, it was closed, and the place seemed strangely si- 
lent and deserted. The afternoon heat was so great that 
the song-birds were hushed, and in hiding under the cool 
green leaves, — the clambering roses round the porch hung 
down their bright heads for sheer faintness, — and the onlj 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


93 


sounds to be heard were the subdued coo-cooing of the 
doves on the roof, and tlie soft trickling rush of a little 
mountain stream that flowed through the grounds. Some- 
what surprised, though not abashed, at the evident “ not-at- 
home ” look of the farm-house, Mr. Dyceworthy rapped 
loudly at the rough oaken door with his knuckles, there be- 
ing no such modern convenience as a bell or a knocker. 
He waited sometime before he was answered, repeating his 
summons violently at frequent intervals, and swearing ir- 
religiously under his breath as he did so. But at last the 
door was flung sharply open, and the tangle-haired, rosy- 
cheeked Britta confronted him with an aspect which was 
by no means encouraging or polite. Her round blue eyes 
sparkled saucily, and she placed her bare, plump, red arms, 
wet with recent soapsuds, akimbo on her sturdy little hips, 
with an air that was decidedlj^ impertinent. 

“Well, what do you want?” she demanded with rude 
abruptness. 

Mr. Dyceworthy regarded her in speechless dignity. 
Vouchsafing no reply, he attempted to pass her and enter 
the house. But Britta settled her arms more defiantly than 
ever, and her voice had a sharper ring as she said — 

“ It’s no use your coming in ! There’s no one here but 
me. The master has gone out for the day.” 

“ Young woman,” returned Mr. Dyceworthy with polite 
severity, “ I regret to see that your manners stand in sore 
need of improvement. Your master’s absence is of no im- 
portance to me. It is with the Frdken Thelma I desire to 
speak.” 

Britta laughed and tossed her rough brown curls back 
from her forehead. Mischievous dimples came and went at 
the corners of her mouth — indications of suppressed fun. 

“ The Frdken is out too,” she said demurely. “ It’s time 
she had a little amusement ; and the gentlemen treat her as 
if she were a queen I ” 

Mr. Dj^ceworthy started, and his red visage became a 
trifle paler. 

“ Gentlemen ? What gentlemen ? ” he demanded with 
some impatience. 

Britta’s inward delight evidently increased. 

“ The gentlemen from the yacht, of course,” she said. 
“ What other gentlemen are there ? ” This with a contempt- 
ous up-and-down sort of look at the Lutheran minister’s 
portly form, “ Sir Philip Errington wa3 hero with his 


94 


THELMA, 


friend yesterday evening and stayed a long time, — and to- 
day a fine boat with four oars came to fetch the master and 
broken Thelma, and they are all gone for a sail to the Kaa 
Fjord or some other place near here — I cannot remember 
the name. And I am so glad 1 ” went on Britta, clasping 
her plump hands in ecstasy. The}" are the grandest, 
handsomest Herren I hav ever s^en, — and one can tell 
they think wonders of the Frbken — nothing is too good for 
her 1 ” 

Mr. Dyceworthv’s face was the picture of disma}". This 
was a new turn to the course of events, and one, more- 
over, that he had never once contemplated. Britta watched 
him amusedly. 

“ Will you leave any message for them when they re- 
turn ? ” she asked. 

“ No,” said the minister dubiously. “ Yet, stay ; yes I I 
will I Tell the Froken that I have found something which 
belongs to her, and that when she wishes to have it, I will 
myself bring it.” 

Britta looked cross. “ If it is hers you have no business 
to keep it,” she said brusquely. “ Why not leave it, — what- 
ever it is, — with me? ” 

Mr. Dyceworthy regarded her with a bland and lofty 
air. 

“ I trust no concerns of mine or hers to the keeping of a 
paid domestic,” he said. “ A domestic, moreover, who de- 
serts the ways of her own people, — who hath dealings with 
the dwellers in darkness, — who even bringeth herself to for- 
get much of her own native tongue, and who devoteth her- 
self to ” 

What he would have said was uncertain, as at that mo- 
ment he was nearly thrown down by a something that 
slipped agilely between his legs, pinching each fat calf as it 
passed — a something that looked like a ball, but proved to 
be a human creature — no other than the crazy Sigurd, who, 
after accomplishing his uncouth gambol successfully, stood 
up, shaking back his streaming fair locks and laughing 
wildly. 

“ Ha, ha I ” he exclaimed. “ That was good ; that was 
clever I If I had upset you now, you would have said 
your prayers backward ! What are you here for ? This is 
no place for you I They are all gone out of it. She has 
gone — all the world is empty ! There is nothing any- 
where but abj aii’j air I — no birds, no flowers, no trees, no 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


95 


sunshine I All gone with her on the sparkling, singing 
water ! ” and he swung his arms round violently, and 
snapped his fingers in the minister’s face. “ What an ugly 
man your are I ” he exclaimed with refreshing candor. “ I 
think you are uglier than I am I You are straight, — but 
you are like a load of peat — heavy and barren and fit to 
burn. Now, I — I am the crooked bough of a tree, but I 
have bright leaves where a bird hides and sings all day ! 
You — you have no song, no foliage ; only ugly and barren 
and fit to burn I ” He laughed heartily, and, catching sight 
of Britta, where she stood in the doorway entirely uncon- 
cerned at his eccentric behavior, he went up to her and 
took hold of the corner of her apron. “ Take me in, Britta 
dear — pretty Britta ! ” he said coaxingly. “ Sigurd is hun- 
gry I Britta, sweet little Britta, — come and talk to me and 
sing I Good-bye, fat man 1 ” he added suddenl}", turning 
round once more on Dyceworthy. “ You will never overtake 
the big ship that has gone away with Thelma over the water. 
Thelma will come back, — ^yes I . . . . but one day she will 
go never to come back.’^ He dropped his voice to a mys- 
terious whisper. “ Last night I saw a little spirit come 
out of a rose, — he carried a tiny golden hammer and nail, 
and a ball of cord like a rolled-up sunbeam. He fiew 
away so quickly I could not follow him ; but I know where 
he went I He fastened the nail in the heart of Thelma, 
deeply, so that the little drops of blood fiowed, — but she felt 
no pain ; and then he tied the golden cord to the nail and 
left her, carrying the other end of the string with him — to 
whom ? Some other heart must be pierced I Whose 
heart ? ” Sigurd looked infinitely cunning as well as mel- 
ancholy, and sighed deeply. 

The Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy was impatient and dis- 
gusted. 

“ It is a pity,” he said with an air of solemn patience, 
“ that this hapless creature, accursed of God and man, is 
not placed in some proper abode suitable to the treatment 
of his affliction. You, Britta, as the favored servant of a 
— a — well, let us say, of a peculiar mistress, should per- 
suade her to send this — this — person away, lest his vagar- 
ies become harmful.” 

Britta glanced very kindly at Sigurd, who still held her 
apron with the air of a trustful child. 

“ He’s no more harmful than you are,” she said promptly, 
in answer to the minister’s remark. “ He’s a good follow 


96 


THELMA. 


and if he talks strangely he can make himself useful,— 
which is more than can be said of certain people. He can 
saw and chop the wood, make hay, feed the cattle, pull a 
strong oar, and sweep and keep the garden, — can’t you, 
Sigurd ? ” She laid her hand on Sigurd’s shoulder, and he 
nodded his head emphatically, as she enumerated his differ- 
ent talents. “ And as for climbing, — he can guide you 
anywhere over the hills, or up the streams to the big water- 
falls — no one better. And if you mean by peculiar, — that 
my mistress is different to other people, why, I know she 
is, and am glad of it, — at any rate, she’s a great deal too 
kind-hearted to shut this poor boy up in a house for mad- 
men I He’d die if he couldn’t have the fresh air.” She 
paused, out of breath with her rapid utterance, and Mr. 
Hyceworthy held up his hands in dignified astonishment. 

“ You talk too glibly, young woman,” he said. “ It is 
necessary that I should instruct you without loss of time, as 
to how you should be sparing of your words in the pres- 
ence of your superiors and betters ” 

Bang ! The door was closed with a decision that sent a 
sharp echo through the silent, heated air, and Mr. Hyce- 
worthy was left to contemplate it at his leisure. Full of 
wrath, he was about to knock peremptorily and insist that 
it should be re-opened ; but on second thoughts he decided 
that it was beneath his dignity to argue with a servant, 
much less with a declared lunatic like Sigurd, — so he made 
the best of his way back to his boat, thinkling gloomily of 
the hard labor awaiting him in the long pull back to 
Bosekop. 

Other thoughts, too, tortured and harrassed his brain, 
and as he again took the oars and plied them wearily 
through the water, he was in an exceedingly unchristian 
humor. Though a specious hypocrite, he was no fool. He 
knew the ways of men and women, and he thoroughly rea- 
lized the present position of affairs. He was quite aware 
of Thelma Giildmar’s exceptional beauty, — and he felt 
pretty certain that no man could look ppon her without 
admiration. But up to this time, she had been, as it were, 
secluded from all eyes, — a few haymakers and fishermen 
were the only persons of the male sex who had ever been 
within the precincts of Olaf Giildmar’s dwelling, with the 
exception of himself, Dj^ceworthy, — who, being armed with 
a lettei of introduction from the actual minister of Bose- 
kop, whose place, he, for the present, filled, had intruded his 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 


97 


company frequently and persistently on the bonde and his 
daughter, though he knew himself to be entirely unwel- 
come. He had gathered together as much as he could, all 
the scraps of information concerning them ; how Olaf 
Giildmar was credited with having made away with his wife 
by foul means ; how nobody even knew where his wife had 
come from ; how Thelma had been mysteriously educated, 
and had learned strange things concerning foreign lands, 
which no one else in the place understood anything about ; 
how she was reputed to be a witch, and was believed to 
have cast her spells on the unhappy Sigurd, to the destruc- 
tion of his reason, — and how nobody could tell where 
Sigurd himself had come from. 

All this Mr. D3xeworthy had heard with much interest, 
and as the sensual part of his nature was always more or 
less predominant, he had resolved in his own mind that here 
was a field of action suitable to his abilities. To tame and 
break the evil spirit in the reputed witch ; to convert her 
to the hol}^ and edifying Lutheran faith ; to save her soul 
for the Lord, and take her beautiful body for himself ; these 
were Mr. D^^ceworthy’s laudable ambitions. There was no 
I rival to oppose him, and he had })lenty of time to mature 
his plans. So he had thought. He had not bargained for 
the appearance of Sir Philip Bruce-Erringtonon the scene, 
— a man, young, handsome, and well-bred, with vast wealth 
to back up his pretensions, should he make any. 

“ How did he find her out ? ” thought the Reverend 
Charles, as he dolefully pulled his craft along. “ And that 
brutal pagan Giildmar, too, who pretends he cannot endure 
strangers I ” 

And as he meditated, a fiush of righteous indignation 
crimsoned his fiabby features. 

“ Let her take care,” he half muttered, with a smile that 
was not pleasant ; “ let her take care I There are more 
ways than one to bring down her pride ! Sir Philip Er- 
rington must be too rich and popular in his own country to 
think of wishing to marry a girl who is only a farmer’s 
daughter after all. He may trifle with her ; 3^es ! . . . 

i and he will help me by so doing. The more mud on her 
name, the better for me ; the more disgrace, the more need 
of rescue, and the more grateful she will have to be. Just 
ft word to Ulrika, — and the scandal will spread. Patience, 
patience I ” 

And somewhat cheered by his own reflections, though 


98 


THELMA, 


still wearing an air of offended dignity, he rowed on, glancing 
up every now and then to see if the Eulalie had returned, 
but her place was still empty. 

Meanwhile, as he thought and planned, other thoughts 
and plans were being discussed at a meeting which was 
held in a little ruined stone hut, situated behind some trees 
on a dreary hill just outside Bosekop. It was a miserable 
place, barren of foliage, — the ground was dry and yellow, 
and the hut itself looked as if it had been struck by light- 
ning. The friends, whose taste had led them to select this 
dilapidated dwelling as a place of conference, were two in 
number, both women, — one of them no other than the min- 
ister’s servant, the drear-faced Ulrika. She was crouched 
on the earth-floor in an attitude of utter abasement, at the 
feet of her companion, — an aged dame of tall and imposing , 
appearance, who, standing erect, looked down upon her 
with an air of mingled contempt and malevolence. The hut 
was rather dark, for the roof was not sufficiently destroyed 
to have the advantage of being open to the sky. The sun- 
light fell through holes of different shapes and sizes, — one 
specially bright patch of radiance illumining the stately 
form, and strongly marked, though withered features of 
the elder woman, whose eyes, deeply sunken in her head, 
glittered with a hawk-like and evil lustre, as they rested on 
the prostrate figure before her. When she spoke, her ac- 
cents were harsh and commanding. 

“ How long ? ” she said, “ how long must I wait ? How 
long must I watch the work of Satan in the land ? The 
fields are barren and will not bring forth ; the curse of 
bitter poverty is upon us all : and only he, the pagan 
Guldmar, prospers and gathers in harvest, while all around 
him starve ! Do I not know the devil’s work when I see 
it, — I, the chosen servant of the Lord ? ” And she struck a 
tall staff she held violently into the ground to emphasize her ; 
words. “ Am I not left deserted in my age ? The child 
Britta, — sole daughter of my sole daughter, — is she not stolen, 
and kept from me ? Has not her heart been utterly turned 
away from mine ? All through that vile witch, — accursed i 

of God and man ! She it is who casts the blight on our 
land ; she it is who makes the hands and hearts of our men 
heavy and careless, so that even luck has left the fishing ; i 
and yet you hesitate, — you dela}^, you will not fulfill j 
your promise ! I tell you, there are those in Bosekop 
who, at my bidding, would cast her naked into the Fjord, j 


THE LAND OF TEE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


99 


and leave her there, to sink or swim according to her 
nature 1 ” 

“ I know,” murmured Ulrika humbly, raising herself 
slightly from her kneeling posture ; “ I know it well ! . . 

. . but, good Lovisa, be patient I I work for the best ! 

Mr. Dyceworth will do more for us than we can do for our- 
selves ; he is wise and cautious ” 

Lovisa interrupted her with a fierce gesture. “ Fool ” 
she cried. “ What need of caution ? A witch is a witch, 
burn her, drown her I There is no other remedy I But 
two days since, the child of my neighbor Engla passed her 
on the Fjord ; and now the boy has sickened of some 
strange disease, and ’tis said he will die. Again, the drove 
of cattle owned by Hildmar Bjorn were herded home when 
she passed by. Now they are seized by the murrain 
plague I Tell your good saint Dyce worthy these things ; 
if he can find no cure, I can, — and will! ” 

Ulrika shuddered slightly as she rose from the ground 
and stood erect, drawing her shawl closely about her. 

“You hate her so much, Lovisa ? ” she asked, almost 
timidly. 

Lovisa’s face darkened, and her yellow, claw-like hand 
closed round her strong staff in a cruel and threatening 
manner. 

“ Hate her I ” she muttered, ‘ I have hated her ever since 
she was born ! I hated her mother before her I A nest of 
devils, every one of them ; and the curse will always be 
upon us while they dwell here.” 

She paused and looked at Ulrika steadily. 

“ Remember I ” she said, with an evil leer on her lips, “ I 
hold a secret of j^ours that is worth the keeping ! I give 
you two weeks more ; within that time you must act 1 De- 
stroy the witch, — bring back to me my grandchild Britta, 
or else — it will be my turn I ” 

And she laughed silently. Ulrika’s face grew paler, and 
the hand that grasped the folds of her shawl trembled vio- 
lently. She made an effort, however, to appear composed, 
as she answered — 

“ I have sworn to obey you, Lovisa, — and I will. But 
tell me one thing — how do you know that Thelma Giildmar 
is indeed a witch ? ” 

“ How do I know ? ” almost yelled Lovisa. “ Have I 
lived all these years for nothing ? Look at her I Am / 
like her ? Are you like her ? Are any of the honest 


100 


THELMA. 


women of the neighborhood like her? Meet her on the 
hills with knives and pins, — prick her, and see if the blood 
will flow 1 I swear it will not — not one drop I Her skin is 
too white; there is no blood in those veins — only fire! 
Look at the pink in her cheeks, — the transparency of her 
flesh, — the glittering light in her eyes, the gold of her hair, 
it is all devil’s work, it is not human, it is not natural I I 
have watched her, — I used to watch her mother, and curse 
her every time I saw her — ay ! curse her till I was breath- 
less with cursing ” 

She stopped abruptly. XJlrika gazed at her with as much 
wonder as her plain, heavy face was capable of expressing. 
Lovisa saw the look and smiled darkly. 

“ One would think you had never known what love is I 
she said, with a sort of grim satire in her tone. ‘‘Yet even 
your dull soul was on fire once I But I — when I was young, 
I had beauty such as you never had, and I loved — Olaf 
Giildmar.” 

XJlrika uttered an exclamation of astonishment. “ You I 
and 3 ^et 3 ^ou hate him now ? ” 

Lovisa raised her hand with an imperious gesture. 

“ I have grown hate like a flower in my breast,” she said, 
with a sort of stern impressiveness. “ I have fostered it 
year after year, and now, — it has grown too strong for me I 
When Olaf Giildmar was young he told me I was fair ; 
once he kissed my cheek at parting ! For those words, — • 
for that kiss, — I loved him then — for the same things I hate 
him now I When I knew he had married, I cursed him ; 
on the day of my own marriage with a man I despised, I 
cursed him I I have followed him and all his surroundings 
wdth more curses than there are hours in the day I I have 
had some little revenge — yes ! ” — and she laughed griml}'’ 
— but 1 want morel For Britta has been caught by his 
daughter’s evil spell. Britta is mine, and I must have her 
back. Understand me well I — do what you have to do with- 
out delay ! Surely it is an easy thing to ruin a woman 1 ” 

Ulrika stood as though absorbed in meditation, and said 
nothing for some moments. At last she murmured as 
though to herself — 

“ Mr. Hyceworth}^ could do much — if •” 

“ Ask him, then,” said Lovisa imperatively. “ Tell him 
the village is in fear of her. Tell him that if he will do 
nothing we will. And if all fails, come to me again ; and 
remember I . . . I shall not only act, — I shall speak I ” 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


101 


And emphasizing the last word as a sort of threat, she 
turned and strode out of the hut. 

Ulrika followed more slowl}^, taking a diiferent direction 
to that in which her late companion was seen rapidly disap- 
pearing. On returning to the minister’s dwelling, she found 
that Mr. Dyceworthy had not yet come back from his boating 
excursion. She gave no explanation of her absence to her 
two fellow-servants, but went straight up to her own room 
— a bare attic in the roof — where she deliberately took off 
her dress and bared her shoulders and breast. Then she 
knelt down on the rough boards, and clasping her hands, 
began to writhe and wrestle as though she were seized with 
a sudden convulsion. She groaned and tortured the tears 
from her eyes ; she pinched her own flesh till it was black 
and blue, and scratched it with her nails till it bled, — and 
she prayed inaudibly, but with evident desperation. Some- 
times her gestures were frantic, sometimes appealing ; but 
she made no noise that was loud enough to attract atten- 
tion from any of the dwellers in the house. Her stolid 
features were contorted with anguish, — and had she been 
an erring nun of the creed she held in such bitter abhor- 
rence, who, for some untold crime, endured a self-imposed 
penance, she could not have punished her own flesh much 
more severely. 

She remained some quarter of an hour or twenty min- 
utes thus ; then rising from her knees, she wiped the 
tears from her eyes and re-clothed herself, — and with her 
usual calm, immovable aspect — though smarting from the 
injuries she had inflicted on herself — she descended to the 
kitchen, there to prepare Mr. Dyceworthy ’s tea with all 
the punctilious care and nicety befitting the meal of so 
good a man and so perfect a saint. 


CHAPTER X. 

“ She believed that by dealing nobly with all, all would show 
themselves noble ; so that whatsoever she did became her.” 

Hafiz. 

As the afternoon lengthened, and the sun lowered his 
glittering shield towards that part of the horizon where he 
rested a brief while without setting, the Eulalie , — her 
white sails spread to the cool, refreshing breeze, — swept 
gracefully and swiftly back to her old place on the Fjord, 


102 


THELMA. 


and her anchor dropped with musical clank and splash, just 
as Mr. Dyceworthy entered his house, fatigued, perspiring, 
and ill-tempered at the non-success of his day. All on 
board the yacht were at dinner — a dinner of the most taste- 
ful and elegant description, such as Sir Philip Errington 
well knew how to order and superintend, and Thelma, lean- 
ing against the violet velvet cushions that were piled 
behind her for her greater ease, looked, — as she indeed 
was, — the veritable queen of the feast. Macfarlane and 
Duprez had been rendered astonished and bashful by her 
excessive beauty. From the moment she came on board 
with her father, clad in her simple white gown, with a deep 
crimson hood drawn over her fair hair, and tied under her 
rounded chin, she had taken them all captive — they were 
her abject slaves in heart, though the}" put on very credit- 
able airs of manl}^ independence and nonchalance. Each 
man in his dilierent way strove to amuse or interest her, 
except, strange to say, Errington himself, who, though 
deeply courteous to her, kept somewhat in the background 
and appeared more anxious to render himself agreeable to 
old Olaf Giildmar, than to win the good graces of his 
lovely daughter. The girl was delighted with everything 
on board the yacht, — she admired its elegance and luxury 
with child-like enthusiasm ; she gloried in the speed with 
which its glittering prow cleaved the waters ; she clapped 
her hands at the hiss of the white foam as it split into a 
creaming pathway for the rushing vessel ; and she was so 
unaffected and graceful in all her actions and attitudes, 
that the slow blood of the cautious Macfarlane began to 
warm up by degrees to a most unwonted heat of admira- 
tion. When she had first arrived, Errington, in receiving 
her, had seriously apologized for not having some lady to 
meet her, but she seemed not to understand his meaning. 
Her naive smile and frankly uplifted eyes put all his sud- 
denly conceived notions of social stiffness to flight. 

“ Why should a lady come? ” she asked sweetly. “ It is 
not necessary ? . . . .” 

“Of course it isn’t!” said Lorimer promptly and de- 
lightedly. “ I am sure we shall be able to amuse you. Miss 
Giildmar.” 

“ Oh, — for that 1 ” she replied, with a little shrug that 
had something French about it, “ I amuse myself always ! 
1 am amused now,— you must not trouble yourselves 1 ” 

As she was introduced to Duprez and Macfarlane, she 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


103 


gave them each a quaint, sweeping curtsy, which had the 
effect of making them feel the most ungainly lumbersome 
fellows on the face of the earth. Macfarlane grew secretly 
enraged at the length of his legs, — while Pierre Duprez, 
though his bow was entirely Parisian, decided in his own 
mind that it was jerk}^, and not good style. She was per- 
fectly unembarrassed with all the young men ; she laughed 
at their jokes, and turned her glorious eyes full on them 
with the unabashed sweetness of innocence ; she listened 
to the accounts they gave her of their fishing and climbing 
excursions with the most eager interest, — and in her turn, 
she told them of fresh nooks and streams and waterfalls, 
of which they had never even heard the names. Not only 
were they enchanted with her, but they were thoroughly 
delighted with her father, Olaf Giildmar. The sturdy old 
pagan was in the best of humors, — and seemed determined 
to be pleased with everything, — he told good stories, — and 
laughed that rollicking, jovial laugh of his with such un- 
forced heartiness that it was impossible to be dull in his 
company, — and not one of Errington’s companions gave a 
thought to the reports concerning him and his daughter, 
which had been so gratuitously related by Mr. Dyceworthy. 

They had had a glorious day’s sail, piloted by Yaldemar 
Svensen, whose astonishment at seeing the Gtildmars on 
board the Eulalie was depicted in his face, but who pru- 
dently forebore from making any remarks thereon. The 
honde hailed him good-humoredly as an old acquaintance, 
— much in the tone of a master addressing a servant, — and 
Thelma smiled kindly at him, — but the boundary line be- 
tween superior and inferior was in this case very strongly 
marked, and neither side showed any intention of over- 
stepping it. In the course of the day, Duprez had acci- 
dentally lapsed into French, whereupon to his suprise 
Thelma had answered him in the same tongue, — though 
with a different and much softer pronunciation. Her “ hien 
zolij^'' had the mellifluous sweetness of the Proven9al 
dialect, and on his eagerly questioning her, he learned that 
she had received her education in a large convent at Arles, 
where she had learned French from the nuns. Her father 
overheard her talking of her school-days, and he added — 

“ Yes, I sent my girl away for her education, though I 
know the teaching is good in Christiania. Yet it did not 
seem good enough for her. Besides, 3^0111’ modern ‘ higher 
education ’ is not the thing for a woman, — it is too heavy 


104 


THELMA. 


and commonplace. Thelma knows nothing about mathe 
matics or algebra. She can sing and read and write, — and, 
what is more, she can spin and sew ; but even these things 
were not the first consideration with me. I wanted her 
disposition trained, and her bodily health attended to. I 
said to those good women at Arles — ‘ Look here, — here’s a 
child for you ! I don’t care how much or how little she 
knows about accomplishments. I want her to be sound 
and sweet from head to heel — a clean mind in a wholesome 
bod}^ Teach her self-respect, and make her prefer death to 
a lie. Show her the curse of a shrewish temper, and the 
blessing of cheerfulness. That will satisfy me ! ’ I dare 
say, now I come to think of it, those nuns thought me an 
odd customer ; but, at any rate, they seemed to understand 
me. Thelma was very happy with them, and considering 
all things ” — the old man’s eyes twinkled fondly — she 
hasn’t turned out so badly I ” 

They laughed, — and Thelma blushed as Errington’s 
dreamy eyes rested on her with a look, which, though he 
was unconscious of it, spoke passionate admiration. The 
day passed too quickly with them all, — and now, as they 
sat at dinner in the richly ornamented saloon, there was not 
one among them who could contemplate without reluctanc<% 
the approaching break-up of so pleasant a party. Dessen 
was served, and as Thelma toyed with the fruit on her plate 
and sipped her glass of champagne, her face grew serious 
and absorbed, — even sad, — and she scarcely seemed to hear 
the merry chatter of tongues around her, till Errington’s 
voice asking a question of her father roused her into swift 
attention. 

“ Do you know any one of the name of Sigurd ? ” he was 
saying, “ a poor fellow whose wits are in heaven let us 
hope, — for they certainly are not on earth.” 

Olaf Giildjnar’s fine face softened with pity, and he re- 
plied — 

“ Sigurd? Have you met him then ? Ah, poor boy, his 
is a sad fate I He has wit enough, but it works wrongly ; 
the brain is there, but ’tis twisted. Yes, we know Sigurd 
well enough — his home is with us in default of a better. 
Ay, ay I we snatched him from death — perhaps unwisely, — 
yet he has a good heart, and finds pleasure in his life.” 

“ He is a kind of poet in his own way,” went on Erring- 
ton, watching Thelma as she listened intently to their con- 
versation. “ Do you know he actually visited me on board 


TEE LAND OF TEE MIDNIGET SUN. 


105 


here last night and begged me to go away from the Alten- 
^ord altogether ? He seemed afraid of me, as if he thought 
I meant to do him some harm.” 

“ How strange I ” murmured Thelma. “ Sigurd never 
speaks to visitors, — he is too shy. I cannot understand his 
motive I ” 

“ Ah, my dear I ” sighed her father. “ Has he any mo- 
tive at all ? . . . and does he ever understand himself? 

His fancies change with every shifting breeze ! I will tell 
you,” he continued, addressing himself to Errington, how 
he came to be, as it were, a bit of our home. Just before 
Thelma was born, I was walking with my wife one day on 
the shore, when we both caught sight of something bump- 
ing against our little pier, like a large box or basket. I 
managed to get hold of it with a boat-hook and drag it in ; 
it was a sort of creel such as is used to pack fish in, and in 
it was the naked body of a half-drowned child. It was an 
ugly little creature — a newly born infant deformity — and 
on its chest there was a horrible scar in the shape of a cross, 
as though it had been gashed deeply with a pen-knife. I 
thought it was dead, and was for throwing it back into the 
Fjord, but my wife, — a tender-hearted angel — took the poor 
wretched little wet body in her arms, and found that it 
breathed. She warmed it, dried it, and wrapped it in her 
shawl, — and after awhile the tiny monster opened its eyes 
and stared at her. Well! . , . somehow, neither of us 

could forget the look it gave us, — such a solemn, warning, 
pitiful, appealing sort of expression I There was no resist- 
ing it, — so we took the foundling and did the best we could 
for him. We gave him the name of Sigurd, — and when 
Thelma was born, the two babies used to play together all 
day, and we never noticed anything wrong with the boy, 
except his natural deformity, till he was about ten or twelve 
years old. Then we saw to our sorrow that the gods had 
chosen to play havoc with his wits. However, we humored 
him tenderly, and he was always manageable. Poor 
Sigurd I He adored my wife ; I have known him listen for 
hours to catch the sound of her footstep ; he would actually 
deck the threshold with flowers in the morning that she 
might tread on them as she passed by.” The old honde 
sighed and rubbed his hand across his eyes with a gesture 
half of pain, half of impatience — “ And now he is Thelma’s 
slave, — a regular servant to her. She can manage him best 


106 THELMA. 

of us all, — he is as docile as a lamb, and will do anything 
she tells him.” 

“ I am not surprised at that,” said the gallant Duprez ; 
“ there is reason in such obedience 1 ” 

Thelma looked at him inquiringly, ignoring the implied 
compliment. 

“ You think so? ” she said simply “ I am glad ! I ah 
ways hope that he will one day be well in mind, — and every 
little sign of reason in him is pleasant to me.” 

Duprez was silent. It was evidently no use making even 
an attempt at flattering this strange girl ; surely she must 
be dense not to understand compliments that most other 
women compel from the lips of men as their right ? He 
was confused — his Paris breeding was no use to him — in 
fact he had been at a loss all day, and his conversation had, 
even to himself, seemed particularly shallow and frothy. 
This Mademoiselle Glildmar, as he called her, was by no 
means stupid — she was not a mere moving statue of lovely 
flesh and perfect color whose outward beauty was her only 
recommendation, — she was, on the contrary, of a most su- 
perior intelligence, — she had read much and thought more, 
— and the dignifled elegance of her manner, and bearing 
would have done honor to a queen. After all, thought Du- 
prez musingly, the social creeds of Paris might be wrong — 
it was just possible! There might be women who were 
womanly, — there might be beautiful girls who were neither 
vain nor frivolous, — there might even be creatures of the 
feminine sex, besides whom a trained Parisian coquette 
would seem nothing more than a painted fiend of the neuter 
gender. These were new and startling considerations to the 
feather-light mind of the Frenchman, — and unconsciously 
his fancy began to busy itself with the old romantic histor- 
ies of the ancient French chivalry, when faith, and love, and 
loyalty, kept white the lilies of France, and the stately cour- 
tesy and unflinching pride of the ancien regime made its 
name honored throughout the world. An odd direction in- 
deed for Pierre Duprez’s reflection to wander in — he, who 
never reflected on either past or future, but was content to 
fritter away the present as pleasantly as might be — and the 
only reason to which his unusually serious reverie could be 
attributed was the presence of Thelma. She certainly had 
a strange influence on them all, though she herself was not 
aware of it, — and not only Erriugton, but each one of his 
companions had been deeply considering during the day, 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 107 

that notwithstanding the unheroic tendency of modern liv- 
ing, life itself might be turned to good and even noble ao 
count, if only an effort were made in the right direction. 

Such was the compelling effect of Thelma’s stainless mind 
reflected in her pure face, on the different dispositions of all 
the young men ; and she, perfectly unconscious of it, smiled 
at them, and conversed gaily, — little knowing as she talked, 
in her own sweet and unaffected way, that the most pro- 
found resolutions were being formed, and the most noble 
and unselfish deeds, were being planned in the souls of her 
listeners, — all forsooth I because one fair, innocent woman 
had, in the clear, grave glances of her wondrous sea-blue 
eyes, suddenly made them aware of their own utter un- 
worthiness. Macfarlane, meditatively watching the girl 
from under his pale eyelashes, thought of Mr. Dyceworthy’s 
matrimonial pretensions, with a humorous smile hovering on 
his thin lips. 

“ Ma certes I the fellow has an unco’ glide opeenion o’ 
himsel’,” he mused. “ He might as well offer his hand in 
marriage to the Queen while he’s aboot it, — he wad hae just 
as muckle chance o’ acceptance.” 

Meanwhile, Errington, having learned all he wished to 
know concerning Sigurd, was skillfully drawing out old 
Olaf Giildmar, and getting him to give his ideas on things 
in general, a task in which Lorimer joined. 

“ So you don’t think we’re making any progress nowa- 
days ? ” inquired the latter with an appearance of interest, 
and a lazy amusement in his blue eyes as he put the ques- 
tion. 

“ Progress I ” exclaimed Giildmar. “ Not a bit of it ! It 
is all a going backward ; it may not seem apparent, but it 
is so. England, for instance, is losing the great place she 
once held in the world’s history, — and these things always 
happen to all nations when money becomes more precious 
to the souls of the people than honesty and honor. I take 
the universal wide-spread greed of gain to be one of the 
worst signs of the times, — the forewarning of some great 
upheaval and disaster, the effects of which no human mind 
can calculate. I am told that America is destined to be the 
dominating power of the future, — but I doubt it I Its poli- 
tics are too corrupt, — its people live too fast, and burn their 
candle at both ends, which is unnatural and most unwhole- 
some; moreover, it is almost destitute of Art in its highest 
forms, — and is not its confessed watchward ‘ the almighty 


108 


THELMA. 


Dollar ? ’ And such a country as that expects to arrogate 
to itself the absolute sway of the world? I tell you, no — 
ten thousand times no! It is destitute of nearly every- 
thing that has made nations great and all-powerful in his- 
toric annals, — and my belief is that what has been, will be 
again, — and that what has never been, will never be.” 

“ You mean by that, I suppose, that there is no possi- 
bility of doing anything new, — no way of branching out in 
some better and untried direction ? ” asked Errington. 

Olaf Giildmar shook his head emphatically. “ You can’t 
do it,” he said decisively. “ Everything in every way has 
been begun and completed and then forgotten over and 
over, in this world, — to be begun and completed and for- 
gotten again, and so on to the end of the chapter. No one 
nation is better than another in this respect, — there is, — 
there can be nothing new. Norway, for example, has had 
its day ; whether it will ever have another I know not, — at 
any rate, I shall not live to see it. And yet, what a past I 
■ ” He broke off and his eyes grew meditative. 

Lorimer looked at him. “ You would have been a 
Yiking, Mr. Giildmar, had you lived in the old days,” he 
said with a smile. 

“I should, indeed 1 ” returned the old man, with an un- 
consciously haughty gesture of his head ; “ and no better 
fate could have befallen me ! To sail the seas in hot pursuit 
of one’s enemies, or in search of further conquest, — to feel 
the very wind and sun beating up the blood in one’s veins, 
— to live the life of a man — a true man ! ... in all the 

pride and worth of strength, and invincible vigor I — how 
much better than the puling, feeble, sickly existence, led by 
the majority of men to-day I I dwell apart from them as 
much as I can, — I steep my mind and body in the joys of 
Nature, and the free fresh air, — but often I feel that the old 
days of the heroes must have been best, — when Gorm the 
Bold and the fierce Siegfried seized Paris, and stabled their 
horses in the chapel where Charlemagne lay buried! ” 

Pierre Diiprez looked up with a faint smile. “ Ah, par- 
don ! But that was surely a very long time ago ! ” 

“True!” said Giildmar quietly. “And no doubt you 
will not believe the story at this distance of years. But the 
day is coming when people will look back on the little 
chronicle of your Empire, — your commune, — your republic, 
all your little affairs, and will say, ‘ Surely these things are 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


109 


myths ; they occurred, — if they occurred at all, — a very 
long time ago ! ’ ” 

“ ^onsieur is a philosopher ! ” said Duprez, with a good- 
humored gesture ; “ I would not presume to contradict 
him.” 

“ You see, my lad,” went on Giildmar more gently, 
“ there is much in our ancient Norwegian history that is 
forgotten or ignored by students of to-day. The travellers 
that come hither come to see the glories of our glaciers 
and flords, — but they think little or nothing of the vanished 
tribe of heroes who once possessed the land. If you know 
your Greek history, you must have heard of Pythias, who 
lived three hundred and fifty-six years before Christ, and 
who was taken captive by a band of Norseman and carried 
away to see ‘ the place where the sun slept in winter.’ 
Most probably he came to this very spot, the AltenQord, — 
at any rate the ancient Greeks had good words to say for 
the ‘ Outside Northwinders,’ as they called us Norwegians, 
for they reported us to be ‘ persons living in peace with their 
gods and themselves.’ Again, one of the oldest tribes in 
the world came among us in times past, — the Phoenicians, — 
there are traces among us still of their customs and manners. 
Yes I we have a great deal to look back upon with pride as 
well as sorrow, — and much as I hear of the wonders of the 
New World, the marvels and the go-ahead speed of 
American manners and civilization, — I would rather be a 
Norseman than a Yankee.” And he laughed. 

“ There’s more dignity in the name, at any rate,” said 
Lorimer. “ But I say, Mr. Giildmar, you are ‘ up ’ in history 
much better than I am. The annals of my country were 
grounded into my tender soul early in life, but I have a 
very hazy recollection of them. I know Henry VIII. got 
rid of his wives expeditiously and conveniently, — and I dis- 
tinctly remember that Queen Elizabeth wore the first pair 
of silk stockings, and danced a kind of jig in them with the 
Earl of Leicester ; these things interested me at the time, — 
and they now seen firmly impressed on my memory to the 
exclusion of everything else that might possibly be more 
important.” 

Old Giildmar smiled, but Thelma laughed outright and 
her ej^es danced mirthfully. 

“ Ah, I do know you now ! ” she said, nodding her fair 
head at him wisely. “ You are not anything that is to be 
believed 1 So I shall well understand you, — that is, you are 


110 


THELMA. 


a very great scholar, — but that it pleases you to pretend 
you are a dunce ! ” 

Lorimer’s face brightened into a very gentle and winning 
softness as he looked at her. 

“ I assure you, Miss Giildmar, I am not pretending in 
the least. I’m no scholar. Errington is, if you like I If 
it hadn’t been for him, I should never have learned any- 
thing at Oxford at all. He used to leap over a difficulty 
while I was looking at it. Phil, don’t interrupt me, — you 
know 3^ou did I I tell you he’s up to everything : Greek, 
Latin, and all the rest of it, — and, what’s more, he writes 
well, — I believe, — though he’ll never forgive me for men- 
tioning it, — that he has even published some poems.” 

“Be quiet, George I ” exclaimed Errington, with a vexed 
laugh. “ You are boring Miss Giildmar to death I ” 

“ What is boring ? ” asked Thelma gently, and then turn- 
ing her eyes full on the young Baronet, she added, “ I like 
to hear that you will pass your days sometimes without 
shooting the birds and killing the fish ; it can hurt nobody 
for you to write.” And she smiled that dreamy pensive 
smile of hers that was so infinitely bewitching. “ You 
must show me all your sweet poems I ” 

Errington colored hotly. “ They are all nonsense, Miss 
Giildmar,” he said quickly. “ There’s nothing ‘ sweet ’ 
about them, I tell you frankly I All rubbish, every line of 
them I ” 

“ Then you should not write them,” said Thelma quietly. 
“ It is only a pity and a disappointment.” 

“ I wish every one were of your opinion,” laughed Lori- 
mer, “ it would spare us a lot of indifferent verse.” 

“ Ah ! you have the chief Skald of all the world in your 
land ! ” cried Giildmar, bringing his fist down with a jovial 
thump on the table. “ He can teach you all that you need 
to know.” 

“ Skald? ” queried Lorimer dubiously. “ Oh, you mean 
bard. I suppose you allude to Shakespeare ? ” 

“ I do,” said the old honde enthusiastically, “ he is the 
of 3"Our country I envy ! I would give an^^- 
thing to prove him a Norwegian. By Valhalla ! had he 
but been one of the Bards of Odin, the world might have 
followed the grand old creed still !' If anything could ever 
persuade me to be a Christian, it would be the fact that 
Shakespeare was one. If England’s name is rendered im- 
perishable, it will be through the fame of Shakespeare 


THE LAND OF THE 3IIDNIGHT SUN, 


111 


alone, — jnst as we have a kind of tenderness for degraded 
modern Greece, because of Homer. ay ! countries and 

nations are worthless enough ; it is only the great names 
of heroes that endure, to teach the lesson that is never 
learned sufficiently, — namely, that man and man alone is 
fitted to grasp the prize of immortality.” 

“Ye believe in immortality ? ” inquired Macfarlane 
seriously. 

Giildmar’s keen eyes lighted on him with fiery impetu- 
ousness. 

“ Believe in it ? I possess it ! How can it be taken 
from me ? As well make a bird without wings, a tree with- 
out sap, an ocean without depths, as expect to find a man 
without an immortal soul ! What a question to ask ? Do 
you not possess heaven’s gift ? and wh}^ should not I ? ” 

“No offense,” said Macfarlane, secretl}" astonished at the 
old bonders fervor, — for had not he, though himself intend- 
ing to become a devout minister of the Word, — had not he 
now and then felt a creeping doubt as to whether, after all. 
there was any truth in the doctrine of another life than 
this one. “ I only thocht ye might have perhaps questioned 
the probabeelity o’t, in j’our own mind ? ” 

“ I never question Divine authority,” replied Olaf Giild- 
mar, “ I pity those that do ! ” 

“ And this Divine authority ? ” said Durpr^z suddenly 
with a delicate sarcastic smile, “ how and where do you 
perceive it ? ” 

“ In the very Law that compels me to exist, young sir,” 
said Gtildmar, — “ in the mysteries of the universe about 
me, — the glory of the heavens, — the wonders of the sea I 
You have perhaps lived in cities all your life, and your 
mind is cramped a bit. No wonder, . . . you can hardly 
see the stars above the roofs of a wilderness of houses. 
Cities are men’s work, — the gods have never had a finger 
in the building of them. Dwelling in them, I suppose you 
cannot help forgetting Divine authority altogether ; but 
here, — here among the mountains, you would soon re- 
member it I You should live here, — it would make a man 
of you ! ” 

“ And you do not consider me a man ? ” inquired Duprez 
with imperturbable good-humor. 

Guldmar laughed. “ Well, not quite! ” he admitted can- 
didly, “ there’s not enough muscle about you. I confess I 
like to see strong fellows — ^fellows fit to rule the planet on 


112 


THELMA. 


which tlic}^ are placed. That’s my whim! — but you’re a 
neat little chap enough, and I dare say you can hold your 
own 1 ” 

And his eyes twinkled good-temperedly as he filled him- 
self another glass of his host’s fine Burgundy, and drank it 
off, while Durprez, with a half-plaintive, half-comical shrug 
of resignation to Gtildmar’s verdict on his personal appear- 
ance, asked Thelma if she would favor them with a song. 
She rose from her seat instantly", without any affected 
hesitation, and went to the piano. She had a delicate touch, 
and accompanied herself with great taste, — but her voice, 
full, penetrating, rich and true, — was one of the purest and 
most sympathetic ever possessed by woman, and its fresh- 
ness was unspoilt by any of the varied “ systems ” of tor- 
ture invented by singing-masters for the ingenious destruc- 
tion of the delicate vocal organ. She sang a Norwegian 
love-song in the original tongue, which might be roughly 
translated as follows : — 

“ Lovest thou me for my beauty’s sake ? 

Love me not then ! 

Love the victorious, glittering Sun, 

The fadeless, deathless, marvellous One ! 

“Lovest thou me for my youth’s sake ? 

Love me not then ! 

Love the triumphant, unperishing Spring, 

Who every year new charms doth bring ! 

“ Lovest thou me for treasure’s sake ? 

Oh, love me not then ! 

Love the deep, the wonderful Sea, 

Its jewels are worthier love than me ! 

“ Lovest thou me for Love’s own sake ? 

Ah sweet, then love me ! 

More than the Sun and the Spring and the Sea, 

Is the faithful heart I will yield to thee ! ’’ 

A silence greeted the close of her song. Though the 
young men were ignorant of the meaning of the words still 
old Giildmar translated them for their benefit, they could 
feel the intensity of the passion vibrating through her ring- 
ing tones, — and Errington sighed involuntarily. She heard 
the sigh, and turned round on the music-stool laughing. 

“Are you so tired, or sad, or what is it ?” she asked 
merrily. “ It is too melancholy a tune? And I was fool- 
ish to sing it, — because you cannot understand the meaning 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


113 


of it. It is all about love, — and of course love is always 
sorrowful.’* 

“ Always ? ” asked Lorimer, with a half-smile. 

“ I do not know,” she said frankl}-, with a pretty dep- 
recatory gesture of her hands, — “ but all books say so 1 
It must be a great pain, and also a great happiness. Let 
me think what I can sing to you now, — but perhaps you 
will yourself sing ? ” 

“ Not one of us have a voice, Miss Giildmar,” said Erring- 
ton. “ I used to think I had, but Lorimer discouraged my 
efforts.” 

“ Men shouldn’t sing,” observed Lorimer ; “ if they only 
knew how awfully ridiculous they look, standing up in 
dress-coats and white ties, pouring forth inane love-ditties 
that nobody wants to hear, they wouldn’t do it. Only a 
a woman looks pretty while singing.” 

“ Ah, that is very nice ! ” said Thelma, with a demure 
smile. “ Then I am agreeable to you when I sing ? ” 

Agreeable ? This was far too tame a word — the}" all rose 
from the table and came towards her, with many assurances 
of their delight and admiration ; but she put all their com- 
pliments aside with a little gesture that was both incredu- 
lous and jDeremptory. 

“ You must not say so many things in praise of me,’’ she 
said, with a swift upward glance at Errington, where he 
leaned on the piano regarding her. “ It is nothing to be 
able to sing. It is only like the birds, but we cannot un- 
derstand the words they say, just as you cannot understand 
Norwegian. Listen, — here is a little ballad you will all 
know,” and she played a soft prelude, while her voice, sub- 
dued to a plaintive murmur, rippled out in the dainty verses 
of Sainte-Beuve — 

“Sur ma lyre, Pautre fois 
Dans un bois, 

Ma main pr4ludait 4 peine ; 

Une colombe descend 
En passant, 

Blanche sur le luth d’eb^ne. 

“ Mais an lieu d’accords touchants, 

De doux chants, 

La colombe gemissante 

Me demande par piti6 
Sa moiti6 

moiti6 loin d’elle absente | 


114 


THELMA. 


She sang this seriously and sweetly till she came to the 
last three lines, when, catching Errington’s earnest gaze, 
her voice quivered and her cheeks flushed. She rose from 
the piano as soon as she had flnished, and said to the bonder 
who had been watching her with proud and gratified looks — 

“ It is growing late, father. We must say good-bye to 
our friends and return home.” 

“Not yet ! ” eagerly implored Sir Philip. “ Come up on 
deck, — we will have coffee there, and afterwards you shall 
leave us when you will.” 

Guldmar acquiesced in this arrangement, before his 
daughter had time to raise any objection, and they all went 
on deck, where a comfortable lounging chair was placed for 
Thelma, facing the most gorgeous portion of the glowing 
sky, which on this evening was like a moving mass of 
molten gold, split asunder here and there by angry ragged- 
looking rifts of crimson. The young men grouped them- 
selves together at the prow of the vessel in order to smoke 
their cigars without annoyance to Thelma. Old Giildmar 
did not smoke, but he talked, — and Errington after seeing 
them all fairly absorbed in an argument on the best meth- 
ods of spearing salmon, moved quietly away to where the 
girl was sitting, her great pensive eyes fixed on the burn- 
ing splendors of the heavens. 

“ Are you warm enough there ? ” he asked, and there was 
an unconscious tenderness in his voice as he asked the ques- 
tion, “ or shall I fetch you a wrap ? ” 

She smiled. “ I have my hood,” she said. “ It is the 
warmest thing I ever wear, except, of course, in winter.” 

Philip looked at the hood as she drew it more closely 
over her head, and thought that surely no more becoming 
article of apparel ever was designed for woman’s wear. He 
had never seen anything like it either in color or texture, 
— it was of a peculiarly warm, rich crimson, like the heart 
of a red damask rose, and it suited the bright hair and 
tender, thoughtful eyes of its owner to perfection. 

“ Tell me,” he said, drawing a little nearer and speaking 
in a lower tone, “ have you forgiven me for my rudeness 
the first time I saw you ? ” 

She looked a little troubled. 

“ Perhaps also I was rude,” she said gently. “ I did not 
know 5"ou. I thought — ” 

“ You were quite right,” he eagerly interrupted her. “ It 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


115 


was very impertinent of me to ask you for your name. I 
should have found it out for myself, as I /?.auedone.” 

And he smiled at her as he said the last words with 
marked emphasis. She raised her eyes wistfully. 

“ And you are glad ? ” she asked softly and" with a sort 
of wonder in her accents. 

“ Glad to know your name ? glad to know you ! Of 
course I Can you ask such a question ? ” 

“ But why ? ” persisted Thelma. “ It is not as if you 
were lonely, — you have friends already. We are nothing to 
you. Soon you will go away, and you will think of the 
Alten^ord as a dream, — and our names will be forgotten. 
That is natural ! ” 

What a foolish rush of passion filled his heart as she spoke 
in those mellow, almost plaintive accents, — what wild words 
leaped to his lips and what an effort it cost him to keep 
them back. The heat and impetuosity of Romeo, — whom 
up to the present he had been inclined to consider a partic- 
ularl}^ stupid youth, — was now quite comprehensible to his 
mind, and he, the cool, self-possessed Englishman, was 
ready at that moment to outrival Juliet’s lover, in his ut- 
most excesses of amorous folly. In spite of his self-re- 
straint, his voice quivered a little as he answered her — 

“ I shall never forget the AltenQord or you. Miss GiildK 
mar. Don’t you know there are some things that cannot \ 
be forgotten ? such as a sudden glimpse of fine scenery, — a / 
beautiful song, or a pathetic poem ? ” She bent her head in 
assent. “ And here there is so much to remember — the 
light of the midnight sun, — the glorious mountains, the 
loveliness of the whole land I ” 

“Is it better than other countries you have seen ? ” 
asked the girl with some interest. 

“ Much better I ” returned Sir Philip fervently. “ In 
fact, there is no place like it in my opinion.” He paused at 
the sound of her pretty laughter. 

“ You are — what is it ? — ecstatic I ” she said mirthfully. 

“ Tell me, have you been to the south of France and the 
Pyrenees ? ” 

“ Of course I have,” he replied. “ I have been all over 
the Continent, — travelled about it till I’m tired of it. Do 
you like the south of France better than Norway ? ” 

“ No, — not so very much better,” she said dubiously. 

“ And yet a little. It is so warm and bright there, and the 
people are gay. Here they are stern and sullen. M^ 


THELMA. 


father loves to sail the seas, and when I first went to school 
at Arles, he took me a long and beautiful voyage. We went 
from Christian sund to Holland, and saw all those pretty 
Dutch cities with their canals and quaint bridges. Then 
we went through the English Channel to Brest, — then by 
the Bay of Biscay to Ba^ onne. Bayonne seemed to me 
very lovely, but we left it soon, and travelled a long way by 
land, seeing all sorts of wonderful things, till we came to 
Arles. And though it is such a long route, and not one for 
many persons to take, I have travelled to Arles and back 
twice that way, so all there is familiar to me, — and in some 
things I do think it better than Norway.” 

“ What induced your father to send you so far away from 
him ? ” asked Philip rather curiously. 

The girl’s eyes softened tenderly. “ Ah, that is easy to 
understand 1 ” she said. ‘‘ My mother came from Arles.” 

“ She was French, then ? ” he exclaimed with some sur- 
prise. 

“ No,” she answered gravely. She was Norwegian^ be- 
cause her father and mother both were of this land. She 
was what they call ‘born sadly.’ You must not ask me 
any more about her, please I ” 

Errington apologized at once with some embarrassment, 
and a deeper color than usual on his face. She looked up at 
him quite frankly. 

“ It is possible I will tell you her history some day,” she 
said, “ when we shall know each other better. I do like to 
talk to you very much I I suppose there are many Eng- 
lishmen like you ? ” 

Philip laughed. “ I don’t think I am at all exceptional I 
why do you ask ? ” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “ I have seen some of 
them,” she said slowly, “and they are stupid. They shoot, 
shoot, — fish, fish, all day, and eat a great deal. . . .” 

“ My dear Miss Giildmar, I also do all these things I ” 
declared Errington amusedly. “ These are only our surface 
faults. Englishmen are the best fellows to be found any- 
where. You mustn’t judge them by their athletic sports, 
or their vulgar appetites. You must appeal to their hearts 
when you want to know them.” 

“Or to their pockets, and you will know them still bet- 
ter 1 ” said Thelma almost mischievously, as she raised her- 
self in her cl^ir to take a cup of coffee from the tray that 
was then being handed to her by the respectful steward. 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


117 


‘ Ah, how good this is I It reminds me of our coffee lunch 
eon at Arles I ” 

Errington watched her with a half-smile, but said no 
more, as the others now came up to claim their share of her 
company. 

“ I say I ” said Lorimer, lazily throwing himself full 
length on the deck and looking up at her, “ come and see 
us spear a salmon to-morrow. Miss Guldmar. Your 
father is going to show us how to do it in the proper 
Norse style.” 

“ That is for men,” said Thelma loftily. “ Women must 
know nothing about such things.” 

“ By Jove 1 ” and Lorimer looked profoundly astonished. 
“ Why, Miss Guldmar, women are going in for everything 
nowadays I Hunting, shooting, bull-fighting, duelling, 
horse-whipping, lecturing, — heaven knows what I They 
stop at nothing — salmon-spearing is a mere trifle in the list 
of modern feminine accomplishments.” 

Thelma smiled down upon him benignly. ‘‘ You will al- 
ways be the same,” she said with a sort of indulgent air, 
“ It is your delight to say things upside down ? But you 
shall not make me believe that women do all these dreadful 
things. Because, how is it possible ? The men would not 
allow them I ” 

Errington laughed, and Lorimer appeared stupefied with 
surprise. 

“ The men — would — not — allow them ? ” he repeated 
slowly. “ Oh, Miss Guldmar, little do you realize the state 
of things at the present day I The glamor of Yiking mem- 
ories clings about you still I Don’t you know the power of 
man has passed away, and that ladies do exactly as they 
like ? It is easier to control the thunderbolt than to pre- 
vent a woman having her own way.” 

“ All that is nonsense I ” said Thelma decidedly. 
“Where there is a man to rule, he must rule, that is 
certain.” 

“Is that positively your opinion ? ” and Lorimer looked 
more astonished than ever. 

“ It is everybody’s opinion, of course I ” averred Thelma. 
“ How foolish it would be if women did not obey men I 
The worl^ would be all confusion! Ah, you see you can 
not make me think your funny thoughts ; it is no use I ” 
And she laughed and rose from her chair, adding with a 


118 


THELMA. 


gentle persuasive air, “ Father dear, is it not time to sa^ 
good-bye ? ” 

“ Truly I think it is ! ” returned Giildmar, giving himself 
a shake like an old lion, as he broke off a rather tedious 
conversation he had been having with MacFarlane. “ We 
shall have Sigurd coming to look for us, and poor Britta 
will think we have left her too long alone. Thank you, my 
lad ! ” this to Sir Philip, who instantly gave orders for the 
boat to be lowered. “ You have given us a day of thorough, 
wholesome enjoyment. I hope I shall be able to return it 
in some way. You must let me see as much of you as 
possible.” 

They shook hands cordially, and Errington proposed to 
escort them back as far as their own pier, but this offer 
Giildmar refused. 

“ Nonsense 1 ” he exclaimed cheerily. “ With four oarsmen 
to row us along, why should we take you away from your 
friends ? I won’t hear of such a thing ! And now, re- 
garding the great fall of Njedegorze ; Mr. Macfaiiane 
here says you have not visited it yet. Well the best 
guide you can have there is Sigurd. We’ll make up a party 
and go when it is agreeable- to you ; it is a grand sight, — 
well worth seeing. To-morrow we shall meet again for the 
salmon-spearing, — I warrant I shall be able to make the 
time pass quickly for you 1 How long do you think of 
staying here ? ” 

“ As long as possible I ” answered Errington absently, his 
eyes wandering to Thelma, who was just then shaking 
hands with his friends and bidding them farewell. 

Giildmar laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. 

That means till you are tired of the place,” he said good- 
humoredly. “ Well you shall not be dull if I can prevent 
it 1 Good-bye, and thanks for your hospitality.” 

“ Ah, yes ! ” added Thelma gently, coming up at that 
moment and laying her soft hand in his. “ I have been so 
happy all day, and it is all your kindness 1 I am very 
grateful 1 ” 

“ It is I who have cause to be grateful,” said Errington 
hurriedly, clasping her hand warmly, “ for your company 
and that of your father. I trust we shall have many more 
pleasant days together.” 

“ I hope so too ! ” she answered simply, and then, the 
boat being ready, they departed. Errington and Lorimer 
leaned on the deck-rails, waving their hats and watching 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


119 


them disappear over the gleaming water, till the very last 
glimpse of Thelma’s crimson hood had vanished, and then 
they turned to rejoin their companions, who were strolling 
up and down smoking. 

“ Belle comme un ange ! ” said Duprez briefly. “ In 
short, I doubt if the angels are so good-looking I ” 

“ The auld pagan’s a fine scholar,” added Macfarlane 
meditatively. “ He corrected me in a bit o’ Latin.” 

“ Did he, indeed ? ” And Lorimer laughed indolently. 
“ I suppose you think better of him now, Sandy ? ” 

Sandy made no reply, and as Errington persisted in turn- 
ing the conversation away from the merits or demerits of 
their recent guests, they soon entered on other topics. But 
that night, before retiring to rest, Lorimer laid a hand on 
his friend’s shoulder, and said quietl}^ with a keen look — 

“ Well, old man, have you made up your mind? Have I 
seen the future Lady Bruce-Errington ? ” 

Sir Philip smiled, — then, after a brief pause, answered 
steadily — 

“ Yes, George, you have ! That is, — if I can win her 1 ” 
Lorimer laughed a little and sighed. “ There’s no doubt 
about that, Phil.” And eyeing Errington’s fine figure and 
noble features musingly, he repeated again thoughtfully — 
“No doubt about that, my boy I ” Then after a pause he 
said, somewhat abruptly, “ Time to turn in — good night 1 ” 
“ Good night, old fellow ! ” And Errington wrung his 
hand warmly, and left him to repose. 

But Lorimer had rather a bad night, — he tossed and 
tumbled a good deal, and had dreams, — unusual visitors 
with him, — and once or twice he muttered in his sleep, — 
“No doubt about it — not the least in the world — and if 
there were ” 

But the conclusion of this sentence was inaudible. 


CHAPTER XL 

“Tu vas faire un beau r^ve, 

Et t’enivrer (Pun plaisir dangereux. 

Sur ton chemin P6toile qui se Idve 
Longtemps encore 6blouira tes yeux ! ” 

De Musset. 

A FORTNIGHT passed. The first excursion in the Eulalie 
had been followed by others of a similar kind, and Erring- 
ton’s acquaintance with the Giildmars was ^st ripening 


120 


THELMA. 


into a pleasant intimacy. It had grown cnstomarj^ for the 
young men to spend that part of the day which, in spite of 
persistent sunshine, they still called evening, in the com- 
fortable, quaint parlor of tlie old farmhouse, — looking at the 
view through the rose-wreathed windows, — listening to the 
fantastic legends of Norwa}^ as told by Olaf Guldmar, — or 
watching Thelma’s picturesque figure, as she sat pensively 
apart in her shadowed corner spinning. They had fratern- 
ized with Sigurd too — that is, as far as he would permit 
them — for the unhappy dwarf was uncertain of temper, and 
if at one hour he were docile and yielding as a child, the 
next he would be found excited and furious at some imagi- 
nary slight that he fancied had been inflicted upon him. 
Sometimes, if good-humored, he would talk almost ration- 
ally, — only allowing his fancy to play with poetical ideas 
concerning the sea, the flowers, or the sunlight, — but he was 
far more often sullen and silent. He would draw a low 
chair to Thelma’s side, and sit there with half-closed eyes 
and compressed lips, and none could tell whether he 
listened to the conversation around him, or was utterly in- 
different to it. He had taken a notable fancy to Lorimer, 
but he avoided Errington in the most marked and persistent 
manner. The latter did his best to overcome this unreason- 
able dislike, but his efforts were useless, — and deciding in 
his own mind that it was best to humor Sigurd’s vagaries, 
he soon let him alone, and devoted his attention more 
entirely to Thelma. 

One evening, after supper at the farmhouse, Lorimer, who 
for some time had been watching Philip and Thelma con- 
versing together in low tones near the open window, rose 
from his seat quietly, without disturbing the hilarity of the 
bonde., who was in the middle of a rollicking sea-story, told 
for Macfarlane’s entertainment, — and slipped out into the 
garden, where he strolled along rather absently till he found 
himself in the little close thicket of pines, — the very same 
spot where he and Philip had stood on the first day of their 
visit thither. He threw himself down on the soft emerald 
moss and lit a cigar, sighing rather drearily as he did so. 

“ Upon my life,” he mused, with a half-smile, “ I am very 
nearly being a hero, — a regular stage-martyr, — the noble 
creature of the piece 1 By Jove, I wish I were a soldier 1 
I’m certain I could stand the enemy’s fire better than this I 
Self-denial? Well, no wonder the preachers make such a 
fuss about it. It’s a tough, uncomfortable duty. But am 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


121 


I self-denying ? Not a bit of it 1 Look here, George Lori- 
mer ” — here he tapped himself very vigorously on his broad 
chest — “ don’t you imagine yourself to be either virtuous 
or magnanimous ! If you were anything of a man at all 
you would never let your feelings get the better of you, — 
you would be sublimely indifferent, stoically calm, — and, as 
it is, — you know what a sneaking, hang-dog state of envy 
you were in just now when you came out of that room 1 
Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, — rascal ? ” 

The inner self he thus addressed was most probably 
abashed by this adjuration, for his countenance cleared a 
little, as though he had received an apology from his own 
conscience. He puffed lazily at his cigar, and felt some- 
what soothed. Light steps below him attracted his atten- 
tion, and, looking down from the little knoll on which he 
lay, he saw Thelma and Philip pass. They were walking 
slowly along a little winding path that led to the orchard, 
which was situated at some little distance from the house. 
The girl’s head was bent, and Philip was talking to her with 
evident eagerness. Lorimer looked after them earnestly, 
and his honest eyes were full of trouble. 

“ God bless them both ! ” he murmured half aloud. 

There’s no harm in saying that,an3"how I Dear old Phil I 
I wonder whether ” 

What he would have said was uncertain, for at that mo- 
ment he was considerably startled by the sight of a meagre, 
pale face peering through the parted pine boughs, — a face 
in which two wild eyes shone with a blue-green glitter, like 
that of newly sharpened steel. 

“ Hullo, Sigurd I ” said Lorimer good-naturedly, as he 
recognized his visitor. “ What are you up to? Going to 
climb a tree ? ” 

Sigurd pushed aside the branches cautiously and ap- 
proached. He sat down by Lorimer, and, taking his hand, 
kissed it deferentially. 

“ I followed you. I saw you go away to grieve alone. I 
came to grieve also I ” he said with a patient gentleness. 

Lorimer laughed languidly. “ By Jove, Sigurd, you’re 
too clever for your age I Think I came away to grieve, 
eh ? Not so, my boy — came away to smoke I There’s a 
come-down for you 1 I never grieve — don’t know how to do 
it. What grief ? ’* 

“ To love I ’’ answered Sigurd promptly. “ To see a 
beautiful elf with golden wings come fluttering, fluttering 


122 


THELMA. 


gently down from the sky, — you open yolii’ arms to catch 
her — so ! ... and just as you think you have her, she 

leans only a little bit on one side, and falls, not into your 
heart — no! — into the heart of some one else! That is 
grief, because, when she has gone, no more elves come down 
from the sky, — for you, at any rate, — good things may come 
for others, — but for you the heavens are empty ! ” 

Lorimer was silent, looking at the speaker curiously. 

“ How do you get all this nonsense into your head, eh ? ” 
he inquired kindly. 

“ 1 do not know,” replied Sigurd with a sigh. “ It 
comes ! But, tell me,” — and he smiled wistfully — “ it is 
true, dear friend — good friend — it is all true, is it not ? For 
you the heavens are empty ? You know it ! ” 

Lorimer flushed hotly, and then grew strangely pale. 
After a pause, he said in his usual indolent way — 

“ Look here, Sigurd ; you’re romantic ! I’m not. I 
know nothing about elves or empty heavens. I’m all right I 
Don’t you bother yourself about me.” 

The dwarf studied his face attentivel}^, and a smile of al- 
most fiendish cunning suddenly illumined his thin features. 
He laid his weak-looking white hand on the young man’s 
arm and said in a lower tone — 

“ I will tell you w'hat to do. Kill him ! ” 

The last two words were uttered with such intensity of 
meaning that Lorimer positively recoiled from the accents, 
and the terrible look which accompanied them. 

“ I say, Sigurd, this won’t do,” he remonstrated gravely. 
“ You mustn’t talk about killing, you know ! It’s not good 
for you. People don’t kill each other nowaday; s so easily as 
you seem to think. It can’t be done, Sigurd! Nobody 
wants to do it.” 

“ It can be done ! ” reiterated the dwarf imperatively. 
“It must be done, and either you or I will do it ! He shall 
not rob us, — he shall not steal the treasure of the golden 

midnight. He shall not gather the rose of all roses ” 

“ Stop I ” said Lorimer suddenly. “ Who are you talking 
about?” 

“ Who ! ” cried Sigurd excitedly. “ Surely you know. 
Of him — that tall, proud, grey-eyed Englishman, — your foe, 
your rival ; the rich, cruel Errington. . . .” 

Lorimer’s hand fell heavily on his shoulder, and his voice 
was very stern. 

“ What nonsense, Sigurd ! You don’t know what you 


THE LAND OP THE 3IIDNIGHT SUN. 


123 


are talking about to-day. Errington my foe ! Good heavens I 
Why, he’s my best friend ! Do you hear ? ” 

Sigurd stared up at him in vacant surprise, but nodded 
feebly. 

“ Well, mind you remember it ! The spirits tell lies, my 
boy, if they say that he is my enemy. I would give my 
life to save his ! ” 

He spoke quietty, and rose from his seat on the moss as 
he finished his words, and his face had an expression that 
was both noble and resolute. 

Sigurd still gazed upon him. “ And you, — you do not 
love Thelma?” he murmured. 

Loriraer started, but controlled himself instantly. His 
frank English eyes met the feverishly brilliant ones fixed so 
appealingly upon him. 

“ Certainly not ! ” he said calmly, with a serene smile. 
‘‘ What makes you think of such a thing ? Quite wrong, 
Sigurd, — the spirits have made a mistake again ! Come 
along, — let us join the others.” 

But Sigurd would not accompany him. He sprang away 
like a frightened animal, in haste, and abruptly plunging 
into the depths of a wood that bordered on Olaf Giildmar’s 
grounds, was soon lost to sight. Lorimer looked after him 
in a little perplexity. 

‘‘ I wonder if he ever gets dangerous ? ” he thought. “ A 
fellow with such queer notions might do some serious harm 
without meaning it. I’ll keep an eye on him ! ” 

And once or twice during that same evening, he felt in- 
clined to speak to Errington on the subject, but no suitable 
opportunity presented itself — and after a while, with his 
habitual indolence, he partly forgot the circumstance. 

On the following Sunday afternoon Thelma sat alone 
under the wide blossom-covered porch, reading. Her father 
and Sigurd, — accompanied by Errington and his friends, — 
had all gone for a mountain ramble, promising to return for 
supper, a substantial meal which Britta was already busy 
preparing. The afternoon was very warm, — one of those 
long, lazy stretches of heat and brilliancy in which Nature 
seems to have lain down to rest like a child tired of play, 
sleeping in the sunshine with drooping flowers in her hands. 
The very ripple of the stream seemed hushed, and Thelma, 
though her eyes were bent seriously on the book she held, 
sighed once or twice heavily as though she were tired. 
There was a change in the girl, — an undefinable something 


124 


THELMA. 


seemed to have passed over her and toned down the redun- 
dant brightness of her beauty. She was paler, — and there 
were darker shadows than usual under the splendor of her 
eyes. Her very attitude, as she leaned her head against 
tile dark, fantastic carving of the porch, had a touch of list- 
lessness and indifference in it ; her sweetly arched lips 
drooped with a plaintive little line at the corners, and her 
whole air was indicative of fatigue, mingled with sadness. 
She looked up now and then from the printed page, and her 
gaze wandered over the stretch of the scented, flower-filled 
garden, to the little silvery glimmer of the Fjord from 
whence arose, like delicate black streaks against the sky, 
the slender masts of the Eulalie , — and then she would re- 
sume her reading with a slight movement of impatience. 

The volume she held was Victor Hugo’s ‘‘ Orientates,” 
and though her sensitive imagination delighted in poetry as 
much as in sunshine, she found it for once hard to rivet her 
attention as closely as she wished to do, on the exquisite 
wealth of language, and glow of color, that distinguishes the 
writings of the Shakespears of France. Within the house 
Britta was singing cheerily at her work, and the sound of 
her song alone disturbed the silence. Two or three pale- 
blue butterflies danced drowsily in and out a cluster of 
honeysuckle that trailed downwards, nearly touching 
Thelma’s shoulder, and a diminutive black kitten, with a 
pink ribbon round its neck, sat gravely on the garden path, 
washing its face with its tiny velvety paws, in that deliber- 
ate and precise fashion, common to the spoiled and petted 
members of its class. Everything was still and peaceful as 
became a Sunday afternoon, — so that when the sound of a 
heavy advancing footstep disturbed the intense calm, the 
girl was almost nervously startled, and rose from her seat 
with so much precipitation, that the butterflies, who had 
possibly been considering whether her hair might not be 
some new sort of sunflower, took fright and flew far up- 
wards, and the demure kitten scared out of its absurd self- 
consciousness, scrambled hastily up the nearest little tree. 
The intruder on the quietude of Giildmar’s domain was the 
Rev. Mr. Dyceworthy, — and as Thelma, standing erect in 
the porch, beheld him coming, her face grew stern and reso- 
lute, and her eyes flashed disdainfully. 

Ignoring the repellant, almost defiant dignity of the girl’s 
attitude, Mr. Dyceworthy advanced, rather out of breath 


THE LAND OF THE BIIDNIGHT SUN. 


125 


and somewhat heated, — and smiling benevolently, nodded 
his head by way of greeting, without removing his hat. 

“ Ah, Frdken Thelma ! ” he observed condescendingly. 
‘‘ And how are you to-day ? You look remarkably well — 
remarkably so, indeed I ” And he eyed her with mild ap- 
proval. 

“ I am well, I thank you,” she returned quietly. “ My 
father is not in, Mr. Dyce worthy.” 

The Reverend Charles wiped his hot face, and his smile 
grew wider. 

“ What matter ? ” he inquired blandly. “We shall, no 
doubt, entertain ourselves excellently without him I It is 
with you alone, Frdken, that I am desirous to hold con- 
verse.” 

And, without waiting for her permission, he entered the 
porch, and settled himself comfortably on the bench oppo- 
site to her, heaving a sigh of relief as he did so. Thelma 
remained standing — and the Lutheran minister’s covetous 
eye glanced greedily over the sweeping curves of her 
queenly figure, the dazzling whiteness of her slim arched 
throat, and the glitter of her rich hair. She was silent — 
and there was something in her manner as she confronted 
him that made it difficult for Mr. Dyceworthy to speak. 
He hummed and hawed several times, and settled his 
stiff collar once or twice as though it hurt him ; finally he 
said with an evident effort — 

“ I have found a — a — trinket of yours — a trifling toy — 
which, perhaps, you would be glad to have again.” And 
he drew carefully out of his waistcoat pocket, a small par- 
cel wrapped up in tissue paper, which he undid with his 
fat fingers, thus displaying the little crucifix he had kept 
so long in his possession. “ Concerning this,” he went on, 
holding it up before her, “ I am grievously troubled, — and 
would fain say a few necessary words ” 

She interrupted him, reaching out her hand for the cross 
as she spoke. 

“ That was my mother’s crucifix,” she said in solemn, in- 
finitely tender accents, with a mist as of unshed tears in 
her sweet blue eyes. “ It was round her neck when she died. 
I knew I had lost it, and was very unhappy about it. I 
do thank you with all my heart for bringing it back to me ! 

And the hauteur of her face relaxed, and her smile — that 
sudden sweet smile of hers, — shone forth like a gleam of 
sunshine athwart a cloud. 


126 


THELMA. 


Mr, Dycewortby’s breath came and went with curious 
rapidity. His visage grew pale, and a clammy dew' broke 
out upon his forehead. He took the hand she held out, — a 
fair, soft hand with a pink palm like an upcurled shell,— 
end laid the little cross within it, and still retaining his 
hold of her, he stammeringly observed — 

“ Then we are friends, Froken Thelma I .... good 
friends, I hope ? ” 

She withdrew her fingers quickly from his hot, moist 
clasp, and her bright smile vanished. 

“ 1 do not see that at all I ” she replied frigidly. “ Friend- 
ship is very rare. To be friends, one must have similar 
tastes and sympathies, — many things w'hich we have not, — 
and which we shall never have. I am slow to call any per- 
son my friend.” 

Mr. Dyceworthy’s small pursy mouth drew itself into a 
tight thin line. 

“ Except,” he said, with a suave sneer, “ except when 
‘ any person ' happens to be a rich Englishman with a hand- 
some face and easy manners ! . . . then you are not 

slow to make friends, Froken, — on the contrary, you are re- 
markably quick I ” 

The cold haughty stare with which the girl favored him 
might have frozen a less coneeited man to a pillar of ice. 

“ What do you mean ? ” she asks abruptly, and with an 
air of surprise. 

The minister’s little ferret-like eyes, drooped under their 
puffy lids, and he fidgeted on the seat with uncomfortable 
embarrassment. He answered her in the mildest of mild 
voices. 

“ You are unlike yourself, my dear Froken 1 ” he said, 
with a soothing gesture of one of his well-trimmed w'hite 
hands. “ You are generally frank and open, but to-day I 
find you just a little, — well! — what shall I sa}^ — secretive? 
Yes, we will call it secretive 1 Oh, fie 1 ” and Mr. Dyce- 
worthy laughed a gentle little laugh ; “ you must not pre- 
tend ignorance of what I mean 1 All the neighborhood is 
talking of you and the gentleman you are so often seen 
with. Notably concerning Sir Philip Errington, — the vile 
tongue of rumor is busy, — for, according to his first plans 
when his yaeht arrived here, he was bound for the North 
Cape, — and should have gone there days ago. Truly, I 
think, — and there are others who think also in the same 
spirit of interest for you, — that the sooner this young man 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


127 


leaves our peaceful Fjord the better, — and the less he has 
to do with the maidens of the district, the safer we shall be 
from the risk of scandal.” And he heaved a pious sigh. 

Thelma turned her e3'^es upon him in wonderment. 

“ I do not understand you,” she said coldly. “ Why do 
j’^ou speak of others ? No others are interested in what I 
do ? Why should they be ? Why should yoa be ? There 
is no need ! ” 

Mr. D3^ceworthy grew slightly excited. He felt like a 
runner nearing the winning-post. 

“ Oh, you wrong yourself, my dear Frdken,” he murmured 
softly, with a sickly attempt at tenderness in his tone. 
“ You reall3^ wrong yourself I It is impossible, — for me at 
least, not to be interested in you, — even for our dear Lord’s 
sake. It troubles me to the inmost depths of my soul to 
behold in 3^011 one of the foolish virgins whose light hath 
been extinguished for lack of the saving oil, — to see 3^011 
wandering as a lost sheep in the paths of darkness and 
error, without a hand to rescue your steps from the near 
and dreadful precipice I Ay, trul3^ ! . . . my spirit 

3^earneth for 3^011 as a mother for an own babe — fain would 
I save 3^ou from the devices of the evil one, — fain would 

I ” here the minister drew out his handkerchief and 

pressed it lightly to his eyes, — then, as if with an effort 
overcoming his emotion, he added, with the gravity of a 
butcher presenting an extortionate bill, “ but first, — before 
m3^ own humble desires for 3"our salvation — first, ere I go 
further in converse, it behoveth me to enter on the Lord’s 
business I ” 

Thelma bent her head slightly, with an air as though she 
said : “ Indeed ; pray do not be long about it I ” And, 
leaning back against the porch, she waited somewhat impa- 
tiently. 

“ The image I have just restored to you,” went on Mr. 
Dyceworth3^ in his most pompous and ponderous manner, 
“ 3^011 say belonged to your unhappy ” 

“ She was not unhappy,” interposed the girl, calmly. 

“ A3^, ay ! ” and the minister nodded with a superior air 
of wisdom. “ So you imagine, so you think, — 3"ou must 
have been too young to judge of these things. She 
died ” 

“ I saw her die,” again she interrupted, with a musing 
tenderness in her voice. “ She smiled and kissed me, — then 
^he laid her thin white hand on this crucifix, and, closing 


128 


THELMA. 


her eyes, she went to sleep. They told me it was death ; 
since then I have known that death is beautiful I ” 

Mr. Dyceworthy coughed, — a little cough of quiet in- 
credulity. He was not fond of sentiment in any form, and 
the girl’s dreamily pensive manner annoyed him. Death 
“ beautiful ? ” Faugh I it was the one thing of all others 
that he dreaded; it was an unpleasant necessity, concerning 
which he thought as little as possible. Though he preached 
frequently on the peace of the grave and the joys of heaven, 
— he was far from believing in either, — he was nervously 
terrified of illness, and fled like a frightened hare from the 
very rumor of any infectious disorder, and he had never 
been known to attend a death-bed. And now, in answer to 
Thelma, he nodded piously and rubbed his hands, and 
said — 

“ Yes, yes ; no doubt, no doubt ! All very proper on your 
part, I am sure I But concerning this same image of which 
I came to speak, — it is most imperative that you should be 
brought to recognize it as a purely carnal object, unfitting a 
maiden’s eyes to rest upon. The true followers of the Gos- 
pel are those who strive to forget the sufferings of our dear 
Lord as much as possible, — or to think of them only in 
spirit. The minds of sinners, alas I are easily influenced, — 
and it is both unseemly and dangerous to gaze freely upon 
the carven semblance of the Lord’s limbs I Yea, truly, it 
hath oft been considered as damnatory to the soul, — more 
especially in the cases of women immured as nuns, who en- 
courage themselves in an undue familiarity with our Lord, 
by gazing long and earnestly upon his body nailed to the 
accursed tree.” 

Here Mr. Dyceworthy paused for breath. Thelma was 
silent, but a faint smile gleamed on her face. 

Wherefore,” he went on, “ I do adjure you, as you de- 
sire grace and redemption, to utterly cast from you the vile 
trinket, I have, — Heaven knows how reluctantly 1 . . . 

returned to your keeping, — to trample upon it, and renounce 
it as a device of Satan ...” He stopped, surprised 
and indignant, as she raised the much-abused emblem to 
her lips and kissed it reverently. 

“ It is the sign of peace and salvation,” she said steadily; 
“ to me, at least. You waste your words, Mr. Dyceworthy; 
I am a Catholic.” 

“ Oh, say not so !” exclaimed the minister, now thor- 
oughly roused to a pitch unctuous enthusiasm, “ Say 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 


129 


not so. Poor child! who knowest not the meaning of the 
word used. Catholic signifies universal. God forbid a uni- 
versal Papacy I You are not a Catholic — no ! You are a 
Roman — by which name we understand all that is most 
loathsome and imp leasing unto God I But I will wrestle 
for 3^our soul, — yea, night and day will I bend my spiritual 
sinews to the task, — 1 will obtain the victor^'^, — I will exor- 
cise the fiend I Alas, alas ! 3'ou are on the brink of hell — 
think of it ! ” and Mr. Dyceworthy stretched out his hand 
with his favorite pulpit gesture. “ Think of the roasting 
and burning, — the scorching and withering of souls 1 Im- 
agine, if you can, the hopeless, bitter, eternal damnation,” 
and here he smacked his lips as though he were tasting 
something excellent, — “ from which there is no escape ! 
. . . for which there shall be no remedy' 1 ” 

“ It is a gloomy picture,” said Thelma, with a quiet 
sparkle in her eye. “ I am soriy, — for you. But I am 
happier, — my fe,ith teaches of purgatory — there is always a 
little hope 1 ” 

“ There is none ! there is none ! ” exclaimed the minister, 
rising in excitement from his seat, and swajdng ponderously 
to and fro as he gesticulated with hands and head. “ You 
are doomed, — doomed ! There is no middle course between 
hell and heaven. It must be one thing or the other ; God 
deals not in half- measures ! Pause, oh pause, ere 3^011 de- 
cide to fall 1 Even at the latest hour the Lord desires to 
save your soul, — the Lord 3^ earns for 3^0111' redemption, and 
maketh me to yearn also. Frbken Thelma ! ” and Mr. Dyce- 
worthy ’s voice deepened in solemnity, “ there is a way which 
the Lord hath whispered in mine ears, — a wa3" that pomteth 
to the white robe and the crown of glory, — a way b3' which 
you shall possess the inner peace of the heart with bliss on 
earth as the forerunner of bliss in heaven ! ” 

She looked at him steadfastly. “ And that way is — 
what ? ” she inquired. 

Mr. Dyceworthy hesitated, and wished with all his heart 
that this girl was not so thoroughly self-possessed. Any 
sign of timidity in her would have given him an increase of 
hardihood. But her eyes were coldly brilliant, and glanced 
him over without the smallest embarrassment. He took 
refuge in his never-failing remedy, his benevolent smile — a 
smile that covered a multitude of hypocrisies. 

“ You ask a plain question, Frbken,” he said sweetly, 
“ and I should be loth not to give you a plain answer. That 


130 


THELMA. 


■way — that glorious way of salvation for you is — through 
me / ” 

And his countenance shone with smug self-satisfaction as 
he spoke, and he repeated softly, “ Yes, yes ; that way is 
through me I ” 

She moved with a slight gesture of impatience. “ It is a 
pity to talk any more,” she said rather wearily. “ It is all 
no use I Why do you wish to change me in my religion ? 
I do not wish to change you. I do not see wh}^ we should 
speak of such things at all.” 

“ Of course I ” replied Mr. Dyceworthy blandly. “ Of 
course you do not see. And why ? Because you are blind.” 
Here he drew a little nearer to her, and looked covetously 
at the curve of her full, firm waist. 

“ Oh, why I ” he resumed in a sort of rapture— “ why 
should we say it is a pity to talk an}^ more ? Why should 
we say it is all no use ? It is of use, — it is noble, it is edi- 
fying to converse of the Lord’s good pleasure I And what 
is His good pleasure at this moment ? To unite two souls 
in His service ! Yea, He hath turned my desire towards 
you, Broken Thelma, — even as Jacob’s desire was towards 
Rachel ! Let me see this hand.” He made a furtive grab 
at the white taper fingers that pla3’^ed listlessly with the 
jessamine leaves on the porch, but the girl dexterously 
withdrew them from his clutch and moved a little further 
back, her face flushing proudly". Oh, will it not come to 
me ? Cruel hand I ” and he rolled his little eyes with an 
absurdly sentimental air of reproach. “ It is shy — it will 
not clasp the hand of its protector I Do not be afraid, 
Broken I ... I, Charles Dyceworthy, am not the man 
to trifle with your young affections ! Let them rest where 
they have flown ! I accept them ! Yea I . . . in spite 

of wrath and error and moral destitution, — my spirit inclin- 
eth towards you, — in the language of carnal men, I love 
you I More than this, I am willing to take you as my law- 
ful wife ” 

He broke off abruptly, somewhat startled at the bitter 
scorn of the flashing eyes that, like two quivering stars, 
were blazing upon him. Her voice, clear as a bell ringing 
in frosty air, cut through the silence like a sweep of a 
sword-blade. 

“ How dare you ! ” she said, with a wrathful thrill in her 
low, intense tones. “ How dare you come here to insult 
me I ” 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 131 

Insult her I He, — the Reverend Charles Dyceworthy, — 
considered guilty of insult in offering honorable marriage 
to a mere farmer’s daughter I He could not believe his own 
ears, — and in his astonishment he looked up at her. Look- 
ing, he recoiled and shrank into himself, like a convicted 
knave before some queenly accuser. The whole form of the 
girl seemed to dilate with indignation. From her proud 
mouth, arched like a bow, sprang barbed arrows of scorn 
that flew straightly and struck home. 

“ Always I have guessed what j^ou wanted,” she went on 
in that deep, vibrating tone which had such a rich quiver 

of anger within it ; “ but I never thought you would ” 

She paused, and a little disdainful laugh broke from her 
lips. “You would make me your wife — me? You think 
me likely to accept such an offer ? ” And she drew herself 
up with a superb gesture, and regarded him fixedly. 

“ Oh, pride, pride ! ” murmured the unabashed Dyce- 
worthy, recovering from the momentary abasement into 
which he had been thrown by her look and manner. “ How 
it overcometh our natures and mastereth our spirits I My 
dear, my dearest Frbken, — I fear you do not understand 
me ! Yet it is natural that 3"ou should not; you were not 
prepared for the offer of my — my affections,” — and he 
beamed all over with benevolence, — “ and I can appreciate 
a maidenly and becoming coyness, even though it assume 
the form of a repellant and unreasonable anger. But take 
courage, my — my dear girl I — our Lord forbid that I should 
wantonly play with the delicate emotions of 3"our heart I 
Poor little heart I does it flutter ? ” and Mr. Dyceworthy 
leered sweetly. “ I will give it time to recover itselfl 
Yes, yes I a little time I and then you will put that pretty 
hand in mine ” — here he drew nearer to her, “ and with one 
kiss we will seal the compact I ” 

And he attempted to steal his arm round her waist, but 
the girl sprang back indignantly, and pulling down a thick 
branch of the clambering prickly roses from the porch, held 
it in front of her by way of protection. Mr. D^^ceworthy 
laughed indulgently. 

“ Very pretty — very pretty indeed I ” he mildly observed, 
e^^eing her as she stood at bay barricaded b}^ the roses. 
“Quite a picture I There, there! do' not be frightened, — 
such shyness is very natural I We will embrace in the 
Lord another day I In the meantime one little word — the 
word — will suffice me, — yea, even one little smile, — to show 


132 


THELMA. 


me that you understand my words, — that you love me ” — 
here he clasped his plump hands together in flabby ecstasy 
— “ even as you are loved I ” 

His absurd attitude, — the weak, knock-kneed manner in 
which his clumsy legs seemed, from the force of sheer sen- 
timent, to bend under his weighty body, and the inanely 
amatory expression of his puffy countenance, would have 
excited most women to laughter, — and Thelma was per- 
fectly conscious of his utterly ridiculous appearance, but 
she was too thoroughly indignant to take the matter in a 
hurmorous light. 

“ Love you I ” she exclaimed, with a movement of irre- 
pressible loathing. “ You must be mad 1 I would rather 
die than marry you I ” 

Mr. Hyceworth^^’s face grew livid and his little eyes 
sparkled vindictively, — but he restrained his inward rage, 
and merely smiled, rubbing his hands softly one against 
the other. 

“ Let us be calm I ” he said soothingly. “ Whatever we 
do, let us be calm I Let us not provoke one another to 
wrath I Above all things, let us, in a spirit of charity and 
patience, reason out this matter without undue excite- 
ment. My ears have most painfully heard your last words, 
which, taken literal^, might mean that you reject my hon- 
orable offer. The question is, do they mean this ? I can- 
not, — I will not believe that you would foolishly stand in 
the way of your own salvation,” — and he shook his head 
with doleful gentleness. “ Moreover, Frbken Thelma, 
though it sorely distresses me to speak of it, — it is my 
duty, as a minister of the Lord, to remind you that an 
honest marriage, — a marriage of virtue and respectability 
such as I propose, is the only way to restore your reputa- 
tion, — which, alas 1 is sorely damaged, and ” 

Mr. Dyceworthy stopped abruptlj’^, a little alarmed, as 
she suddenly cast aside the barrier of roses and advanced 
toward him, her blue eyes blazing. 

“ My reputation 1 ” she said haughtily. “ Who speaks of 
it?” 


“ Oh dear, dear me I ” moaned the minister pathetically. 
“ Sad I . . . very sad to see so ungovernable a temper, so 
wild and untrained a* disposition 1 Alas, alas I how frail we 
are without the Lord’s support, — without the strong staff 
of the Lord’s mercy to lean upon ! Not I, my poor child, 
not I, but the whole village speaks of you ; to you the 


THE LAND OF THE 3I1DNIGHT SUN. 


133 


ignorant people attribute all the sundry evils that of late 
have fallen sorely upon them, — bad harvests, ill-luck with 
the fishing, poverty, sickness,” — here Mr. Dyceworthy 
pressed the tips of his fingers delicately together, and 
looked at her with a benevolent compassion, — “ and they 
call it witchcraft, — yes ! strange, very strange 1 But so it 
is, — ignorant as they are, such ignorance is not easily en- 
lightened, — and though I,” he sighed, “ have done my poor 
best to disabuse their minds of the suspicions against you, 
I find it is a matter in which I, though a humble mouth- 
piece of the Gospel, am powerless — quite powerless I ” 

She relaxed her defiant attitude, and moved away from 
him ; the shadow of a smile was on her lips. 

“ It is not my fault if the people are foolish,” she said 
coldly ; “ I have never done harm to any one that I know 
of” And turning abruptly, she seemed about to enter the 
house, but the minister dexterously placed himself in her 
way, and barred her passage. 

“ Stay, oh, stay I ” he exclaimed with unctuous fervor. 
“ Pause, unfortunate girl, ere you reject the strong shield 
and buckler that the Lord has, in His great mercy, offered 
you, in my person! For I must warn you, — Frdken 
Thelma, I must warn you seriously of the danger you run I 
I will not pain you by referring to the grave charges 
brought against your father, who is, alas ! in spite of my 
spiritual wrestling with the Lord for his sake, still no bet- 
ter than a heathen savage ; no ! I will say nothing of this. 
But what, — what shall I say,” — here he lowered his voice 
to a tone of mysterious and weighty reproach, — “ what shall 
I say of your most unseemly and indiscreet companionship 
with these worldly young men who are visiting the Fjord 
for their idle pastime ? Ah dear, dear ! This is indeed a 
heavy scandal and a sore burden to my soul, — for up to 
this time I have, in spite of many faults in your disposition, 
considered you were at least of a most maidenly and de- 
corous deportment, — but now — now! to think that you 
should, of your own free will and choice, consent to be the 
plaything of this idle stroller from the wicked haunts of 
fashion, — the hour’s toy of this Sir Philip Errington I 
Frdken Thelma, I would never have believed it of you I ” 
And he drew himself up with ponderous and sorrowful dig- 
nity. 

A burning blush had covered Thelma’s face at the men- 
tion of Errington’s name, but it soon faded, leaving her 


134 


THELMA. 


very pale. She changed her position so that she confronted 
Mr. Dyceworthy, — her clear blue eyes regarded him stead* 
fastly. 

“ is this what is said of me? ” she asked calmly. 

“ It is, — it is, most unfortunately I ” returned the minis- 
tor, shaking his bullet-like head a great many times ; then, 
with a sort of elephantine cheerfulness, he added, “ but what 
matter ? There is time to remedy these things. I am wil- 
ling to set myself as a strong barrier against the evil noises 
of rumor ! Am I selfish or ungenerous ? The Lord forbid 
it ! No matter how / am compromised, no matter how I am 
misjudged, — I am still willing to take you as my lawful 
wife Froken Thelma, — but, ’’and here he shook his forefinger 
at her with a pretended playfulness, “ I will permit no more 
converse with Sir Philip Errington ; no, no I I cannot al- 
low it I ... I cannot, indeed 1 ” 

She still looked straight at him,^her bosom rose and fell 
rapidly with her passionate breath, and there was such an 
eloquent breath of scorn in her face that he winced under 
it as though struck b}" a sharp scourge. 

“ You are not worth my anger I ” she said slowly, this 
time without a tremor in her rich voice. “ One must have 
something to be angry with, and you — you are nothing I 
Neither man nor beast, — for men are brave, and beasts tell 
no lies I Your wife! 1 1 ” and she laughed aloud, — then 
with a gesture of command, “ Go I ” she exclaimed, “ and 
never let me see your face again I ” 

The clear scornful laughter, — the air of absolute authority 
with which she spoke, — would have stung the most self- 
opinionated of men, even though his conscience were en- 
veloped in a moral leather casing of hypocrisy and arro- 
gance. And, notwithstanding his invariable air of mildness, 
Mr. Dyceworthy had a temper. That temper rose to a 
white heat just now, — every drop of blood receded from his 
countenance, — and his soft hands clenched themselves in a 
particularly ugly and threatening manner. Yet he managed 
to preserve his suave composure. 

“ Alas, alas 1 ” he murmured. “ How sorely my soul is 
afflicted to see you thus, Froken I I am amazed — I am dis- 
tressed ! Such language from your lips 1 oh fie, fie ! And 
has it come to this I And must I resign the hope I had of 
saving your poor soul ? and must I withdraw my spiritual 
protection from you ? ” This he asked with a suggestive 
sneer of his prim mouth, — and then continued, “ I must — • 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


135 


alas, I must I My conscience will not permit me to do more 
than pray for you ! And as is my duty, I shall, in a spirit 
of forbearance and charity, speak warningly to Sir Philip 
concerning ” 

But Thelma did not permit him to finish his sentence. 
She sprang forward like a young leopardess, and with a 
magnificent outward sweep of her arm motioned him down 
the garden path. 

“ Out of my sight, — coward ! ” she cried, and then stood 
waiting for him to obey her, her whole frame vibrating with 
indignation like a harp struck too roughly. She looked so 
terribly beautiful, and there was such a suggestive power in 
that extended bare white arm of hers, that the minister, 
though quaking from head to heel with disappointment and 
resentment, judged it prudent to leave her. 

“ Certainly, I will take my departure, Broken ! ” he said 
meekly, while his teeth glimmered wolfishly through his 
pale lips, in a snarl more than a smile. It is best you 
should be alone to recover yourself — from this — this undue 
excitement I I shall not repeat my — m3^ — ofter ; but I am 
sure your good sense will — in time — show 3^011 how very 
unjust and hasty you have been in this matter — and — and 
you will be sorry I Yes, indeed I I am quite sure you will 
be sorr3" I I wish you good day, Broken Thelma I ” 

She made him no reply, and he turned from the house and 
left her, strolling down the flower-bordered path as though 
he were in the best of all possible moods with himself and 
the universe. But, in truth, he muttered a heavy oath 
under his breath — an oath that was by no means in keeping 
with his godly and peaceful disposition. Once, as he walked, 
he looked back, — and saw the woman he coveted now more 
than ever, standing erect in the porch, tall, fair and loyal in 
her attitude, looking like some proud empress who had just 
dismissed an unworthy vassal. A farmer’s daughter I and 
she had refused Mr. Dyceworthy with disdain I He had 
much ado to prevent himself shaking his fist at her I 

“ The lofty shall be laid low, and the stiff-necked shall be 
humbled,” he thought, as with a vicious switch of his stick 
he struck off a fragrant head of purple clover. “ Conceited 
fool of a girl I Hopes to be ‘ my lady ’ does she ? She had 
better take care I ” 

Here he stopped abruptly in his walk as if a thought had 
struck him, — a malignant joy sparkled in his eyes, and he 
flourished his stick triumphantly in the air. “ I’ll have 


136 


THELMA, 


her yet 1 ” he exclaimed half-aloud. ‘‘ I’ll set Lovisa on 
her I ” And his countenance cleared ; he quickened his 
pace like a man having some pressing business to fulfill, 
and was soon in his boat, rowing towards Bosekop with 
unaccustomed speed and energy. 

Meanwhile Thelma stood motionless where he had left 
her, — she watched the retreating form of her portly suitor 
till he had altogether disappeared, — then she pressed one 
hand on her bosom, sighed, and laughed a little. Glancing 
at the crucifix so lately restored to her, she touched it with 
her lips and fastened it to a small silver chain she wore, and 
then a shadow swept over her fair face that made it strangely 
sad and weary. Her lips quivered pathetically ; she shaded 
her eyes with her curved fingers as though the sunlight 
hurt her, — then with faltering steps she turned away from 
the warm stretch of garden, brilliant with blossom, and en- 
tered the house. There was a sense of outrage and insult 
upon her, and though in her soul she treated Mr. Dyce- 
worthy’s observations with the contempt they deserved, his 
coarse allusion to Sir Philip Errington had wounded her 
more than she cared to admit to herself. Once in the quiet 
sitting-room, she threw herself on her knees by her father’s 
arm-chair, and laying her proud little golden head down on 
her folded arms, she broke into a passion of silent tears. 

W ho shall unravel the mystery of a woman’s weeping ? 
Who shall declare whether it is a pain or a relief to the 
overcharged heart ? The dignity of a crowned queen is ca- 
pable of utterly dissolving and disappearing in a shower of 
tears, when Love’s burning finger touches the pulse and 
marks its slow or rapid beatings. And Thelma wept as 
many of her sex weep, without knowing why, save that all 
suddenly she felt herself most lonely and forlorn like Sainte 
Beuve’s — 

“Colombe gemissante, 

Qui demande par piti4 
Sa moiti4, 

Sa moiti4 loin d’elle absente!’* 


CHAPTER XII. 


“ A wicked will, 

A woman’s will ; a cankered grandame’s will ! ” 

King John. 

By Jove! ” 


And Lorimer, after uttering this unmeaning exclama- 


TEE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN, 


137 


tion, was silent out of sheer dismay. He stood hesitating 
and looking in at the door of the Giildmar’s sitting-room, 
and the alarming spectacle he saw was the queenly Thelma 
down on the floor in an attitude of grief, — Thelma giving 
way to little smothered sobs of distress, — Thelma actually 
crying 1 He drew a long breath and stared, utterly bewil- 
dered. It was a sight for which he was unprepared, — he 
was not accustomed to women’s tears. What should he do ? 
Should he cough gentl^^ to attract her attention, or should 
he retire on tip-toe and leave her to indulge her grief as 
long as she would, without making any attempt to console 
her ? The latter course seemed almost brutal, yet he was 
nearly deciding upon it, when a slight creak of the door 
against which he leaned, caused her to look up suddenly. 
Seeing him, she rose quickly from her desponding position 
and faced him, her cheeks somewhat deeply flushed and her 
eyes glittering feverishly. 

“ Mr. Lorimer I ” she exclaimed, forcing a faint smile to her 
quivering lips. “ You here? Why, where are the others?” 

“ They are coming on after me,” replied Lorimer, ad- 
vancing into the room, and diplomatically ignoring the girl’s 
efforts to hide the tears that still threatened to have their 
way. “But I was sent in advance to tell you not to be 
frightened. There has been a slight accident ” 

She grew very pale. “ Is it my father ? ” she asked trem- 
blingly. “ Sir Philip ” 

“ No, no I ” answered Lorimer reassuringl 3 ^ “ It is 
nothing serious, really, upon my honor! Your father’s all 
right, — so is Phil, — our lively friend Pierre is the victim. 
The fact is, we’ve had some trouble with Sigurd. I can’t 
think what has come to the boy ! He was as amiable as 
possible when we started, but after we had climbed about 
half-way up the mountain, he took it into his head to throw 
stones about rather recklessly. It was only fun, he said. 
Your father tried to make him leave off, but he was obstin- 
ate. At last, in a particularly bright access of playful- 
ness, he got hold of a large flint, and nearly put Phil’s eye 
out with it, — Phil dodged it, and it flew straight at Du- 
prez, splitting open his cheek in rather an unbecoming 

fashion Don’t look so horrified. Miss Guldmar, — it is 

really nothing ! ” 

“ Oh, but indeed it is something ! ” she said, with true 
womanly anxiety in her voice. “ Poor fellow I I am so 
sorry I Is he much hurt ? Does he suffer-? ” 


138 


THELMA. 


“ Pierre? Oh, no, not a bit of it I He’s as joll^/ as pos- 
sible I We bandaged him up in a very artistic fashion ; lie 
looks quite interesting, I assure you. His beauty’s spoilt 
for a time, that’s all. Phil thought you might be alarmed 
when you saw us bringing home the wounded, — that is why 
I came on to tell you all about it.” 

“ But what can be the matter with Sigurd?” asked the 
girl, raising her hand furtively to dash off a few tear- 
drops that still hung on her long lashes. “ And where is 
he?” 

“ Ah, that I can’t tell you I ” answered Lorimer. “ He is 
perfectly incomprehensible to-day. As soon as he saw the 
blood flowing from Duprez’s cheek, he uttered a howl as 
if some one had shot him, and away he rushed into the 
woods as fast as he could go. We called him, and shouted 
his name till we were hoarse, — all no use I He wouldn’t 
come back. I suppose he’ll find his way home by him- 
self ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Thelma gravely. ‘‘ But when he comes I 
will scold him very much I It is not like him to be so wild 
and cruel. He will understand me when I tell him how 
wrong he has been.’' 

“ Oh, don’t break his heart, poor little chap 1 ” said Lori- 
mer easily. “ Your father has given him a terrible scold- 
ing already. He hasn’t got his wits about him you know, 
— he can’t help being queer sometimes. But what have 
you been doing with yourself during our absence ? ” And 
he regarded he with friendly scrutin}^ “ You were crying 
when I came in. Now, weren’t you ? ” 

She met his gaze quite frankly. “Yes! ’’she replied, 
with a plaintive thrill in her voice. “ I could not help 
it ! My heart ached and the tears came. Somehow I 
felt that everything was wrong, — and that it was all my 
fault ” 

“Your fault!” murmured Lorimer, astonished. “My 
dear Miss Giildmar, what do you mean ? What is your 
fault ? ” 

“ Everything ! ” she answered sadly, with a deep sigh. 
“ I am very foolish ; and I am sure I often do wrong 
without meaning it. Mr. I)yce worthy has been here and 

” she stopped abruptly, and a wave of color flushed 

her face. 

Lorimer laughed lightly. “ Dyceworthy ! ” he exclaimed. 
“ The mystery is- explained ! You have been bored by ‘ the 


TEE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


139 


good religious,’ as Pierre calls him. You know what boring 
means now, Miss Giildmar, don’t you?” She smiled 
slightly, and nodded. “ The first time you visited the 
Hulalie, you didn’t understand the word, I remember,—* 
ah 1 ” and he shook his head — if you were in Londolt 
society, you’d find that expression very convenient,— it 
would come to your lips pretty frequently, I can tell 
you I ” 

“ I shall never see London,” she said, with a sort of re- 
signed air. “ You will all go away very soon, and I — I 
shall be lonely ” 

She bit her lips in quick vexation, as her blue eyes filled 
again with tears in spit^ of herself. 

Lorimer turned away and pulled a chair to the open 
window. 

“ Come and sit down here,” he said invitingly. “ We 
shall be able to see the others coming down the hill. Noth- 
ing like fresh air for blowing away the blues.” Then, as 
she obeyed him, he added, ‘‘ What has Dyceworthy been 
saying to you ? ” 

“ He told me I was wicked,” she murmured ; “ and that 
all the people here think very badly of me. But that was 
not the worst ” — and a little shudder passed over her — 
“ there was something else — something that made me very 
angry — so angry 1 ” — and here she raised her eyes with a 
gravely penitent air — “ Mr. Lorimer, I do not think I have 
ever had so bad and fierce a temper before I ” 

“ Good gracious I ” exclaimed Lorimer, with a broad 
smile. “You alarm me. Miss Giildmar 1 I had no idea 
you were a ‘ bad, fierce ’ person, — I shall get afraid of you 
— I shall, really I ” 

“ Ah, you laugh ! ” and she spoke half-reproachfully. 
“ You will not be serious for one little moment I ” 

“Yes I will I Now look at me,” and he assumed a solemn 
expression, and drew himself up with an air of dignity. 
“I am all attention! Consider me your father-confessor. 
Miss Giildmar, and explain the reason of this ‘ bad, fierce ’ 
temper of yours.” 

She peeped at him shyly from under her silken lasheso 

“ It is more dreadful than you think,” she answered in a 
low tone. “ Mr. Dyceworthy asked me to marry him.” 

Lorimer’s keen eyes flashed with indignation. This was 
beyond a jest, — and he clenched his fist as he exclaimed — 

“ Impudent donkey I What a jolly good thrashing he 


140 


TBELMA. 


deserves I ... and I shouldn’t be surprised if he got it 
one of these days! And so, Miss Giildmar,”— and he 
studied her face with some solicitude — “you were very 
angry with him ? ” 

“ Oh yes 1 ” she replied, “ but when I told him he was a 
coward, and that he must go away, he said some very cruel 

things ” she stopped, and blushed deeply ; then, as if 

seized by some sudden impulse, she laid her small hand on 
Lorimer’s and said in the tone of an appealing child, “ you 
are very good and kind to me, and you are clever, — you 
know so much more than I do! You must help me, — you 
will tell me, will you not ? . . . if it is wrong of me to 
like you all, — it is as if we had known each other a long 
time and I have been very happy with you and your friends. 
But you must teach me to behave like the girls you have 
seen in London, — for I could not bear that Sir Philip should 
think me wicked ! ” 

“Wicked!” and Lorimer drew a long breath. “Good 
heavens ! If you knew what Phil’s ideas about you are, 
Miss Giildmar ” 

“ I do not wish to know,” interrupted Thelma steadily. 

You must quite understand me,— I am not clever to hide 
iny thoughts, and — and — , you are glad when you talk 
sometimes to Sir Philip, are you not?” He nodded, 
gravely studying every light and shadow on the fair, up- 
turned, innocent face. 

“ Yes !” she continued with some eagerness, “ I see you 
are ! Well, it is the same with me, — I do love to hear him 
speak ! You know how his voice is like music, and how his 
kind ways warm the heart, — it is pleasant to be in his com- 
pany — I am sure you also find it so ! But for me, — it 
seems it is wrong, — it is not wise for me to show when I am 
happy. I do not care what other people say, — but I would 
not have him think ill of me for all the world 1 ” 

Lorimer took her hand and held it in his with a most 
tender loyalty and respect. Her naive, simple words had, 
all unconsciously to herself, laid bare the secret of her soul 
to his eyes, — and though his heart beat with a strange sick- 
ening sense of unrest that flavored of despair, a gentle rev- 
erence filled him, such as a man might feel if some little 
snow-white shrine, sacred to purity and peace, should be 
suddenly unveiled before him. 

“ My dear Miss Giildmar,” he said earnestly, “ I assure 
you, you have no cause to be uneasy I You must not bo- 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 


141 


lieve a word Dyceworthy says — every one with a grain of 
common sense can see what a liar and hypocrite he is I And 
as for yon, you never do anything wrong, — don’t imagine 
such nonsense 1 I wish there were more women like you 1 ” 

“ Ah, that is very kind of you I ” half laughed the girl, 
still allowing her hand to rest in his. “But I do not think 
everybody would have such a good opinion.” They both 
started, and their hands fell asunder as a shadow darkened 
the room, and Sir Philip stood before them. 

“ Excuse me ! ” he said stiffly, lifting his hat with cere- 
monious politeness. “ I ought to have knocked at the door 
—I ” 

“ Why ? ” asked Thelma, raising her eyebrows in sur- 
prise. 

“ Yes — why indeed ? ” echoed Lorimer, with a frank look 
at his friend. 

“ I am afraid,” — and for once the generally good-humored 
Errington looked positively petulant — “ I am afraid I in- 
terrupted a pleasant conversation 1 ” And he gave a little 
forced laugh of feigned amusement, but evident vexation. 

“ And if it was pleasant, shall you not make it still more 
so?” asked Thelma, with timid and bewitching sweetness, 
though her heart beat very fast, — she was anxious. Why 
was Sir Philip so cold and distant ? He looked at her, and 
his pent-up passion leaped to his eyes and filled them with 
a glowing and fiery tenderness, — her head drooped suddenly, 
and she turned quickly, to avoid that searching, longing 
gaze. Lorimer glanced from one to the other with a slight 
feeling of amusement. 

“ Well Phil,” he inquired lazily, “how did you get here 
so soon ? You must have glided into the garden like a 
ghost, for I never heard you coming.” 

“ So I imagine ! ” retorted Errington, with an effort to 
be sarcastic, in which he utterly failed as he met his friend’s 
eyes, — then after a slight and somewhat embarrassed pause 
he added more mildly I “ Duprez cannot get on very fast, 
— his wound still bleeds, and he feels rather faint now and 
then. I don’t think we bandaged him up properly, and 
I came on to see if Britta could prepare something for 
him.” 

“But you will not need to ask Britta,” said Thelma 
quietly, with a pretty air of authority, “ for I shall myself 
do all for Mr. Duprez. I understand well how to cure his 
wound, and I do think he will like me as well as Britta.” 


142 


THELMA. 


And, hearing footsteps approaching, she looked out at the 
window. “ Here they come I ” she exclaimed. “ Ah, poor 
Monsieur Pierre I he does look very pale 1 I will go and 
meet them.” 

And she hurried from the room, leaving the two yoimg 
jnen together. Errington threw himself into Olaf Giild- 
mar’s great arm-chair, with a slight sigh. 

“ Well?” said Lorimer inquiringly. 

“ Well I ” he returned somewhat gruffly. 

Lorimer laughed, and crossing the room, approached him 
ftnd clapped a hand on his shoulder. 

“ Look here, old man ! ” he said earnestly, “ don’t be a 
fool I I know that ‘ love maketh men mad,’ but I never 
supposed the lunacy would lead you to the undesirable 
point of distrusting your friend, — your true friend, Phil, — 
by all the Gods of the past and present I ” 

And he laughed again, — a little huskily this time, for 
there was a sudden unaccountable and unwished-for lump 
in his throat, and a moisture in his eyes which he had not 
bargained for. Philip looked up, — and silently held out 
his hand, which Lorimer as silently clasped. There was a 
moment’s hesitation, and then the young baronet spoke out 
manfully. 

“ I’m ashamed of myself, George ! I really am I But I 
tell you, when I came in and saw you two standing there, 
.—you’ve no idea what a picture you made! ... by 
Jove! ... I was furious!” And he smiled. “I 
suppose I was jealous ! ” 

“ I suppose you were ! ” returned Lorimer amusedly. 
“ Novel sensation, isn’t it ? A sort of hot, prickly, ‘ have- 
at-thee- villain ’ sort of thing ; must be frightfully exhaust- 
ing ! But why you should indulge this emotion at my ex- 
pense is what I cannot, for the life of me, understand ! ” 

“ Well,” murmured Errington, rather abashed, “ you see, 
her hands were in yours ” 

“ As they will be again, and yet again, I trust ! ” said 
Lorimer with cheery fervor. “ Surely you’ll allow me to 
shake hands with your wife ? ” 

“ I say, George, be quiet ! ” exclaimed Philip warningly, 
as at that moment Thelma passed the window^ wdth Pierre 
Duprez leaning on her arm, and her father and Macfarlane 
following. 

She entered the room with the stately step of a young 
queen,— her tall, beautiful figure forming a strong contrast 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 


143 


to that of the narrow-shouldered little Frenchman, upon 
whom she smiled down with an air of almost maternal pro- 
tection. 

“ You will sit here, Monsieur Duprez,” she said, leading 
him to the bonders arm-chair which Errington instantly va- 
cated, “ and father will bring you a good glass of wine. 
And the pain will be nothing when I have attended to that 
cruel wound. But I am so sorry, — so very sorry, to see 
you suffer I ” 

Pierre did indeed present rather a dismal spectacle. 
There was a severe cut on his forehead as well as his cheek ; 
his face was pale and streaked with blood, while the hastily- 
improvised bandages which were tied under his chin, by no 
means improved his personal appearance. His head ached 
with the pain, and his eyes smarted with the strong sun- 
light to which he had been exposed all the day, but his nat- 
ural gaiety was undiminished, and he laughed as he an- 
swered — 

Chere Mademoiselle^ you are too good to me I It is a 
piece of good fortune that Sigurd threw that stone — yes I 
since it brings me your pity I But do not trouble ; a little 
cold water and a fresh handkerchief is all I need.” 

But Thelma was already practicing her own simple sur- 
gery for his benefit. With deft, soft fingers she laid bare 
the throbbing wound, — washed and dressed it carefully and 
skillfully, — and used with all such exceeding gentleness, 
that Duprez closed his eyes in a sort of rapture during the 
operation, and wished it could last longer. Then taking 
the glass of wine her father brought in obedience to her 
order, she said in a tone of mild authority — 

“ Now, you will drink this Monsieur Pierre, and you will 
rest quite still till it is time to go back to the yacht ; and to- 
morrow you will not feel any pain, I am sure. And I do 
think it will not be an ugly scar for long.” 

“ If it is,” answered Pierre, “ I shall say I received it in 
a duel ! Then I shall be great — glorious I and all the 
pretty ladies will love me ! ” 

She laughhd, — but looked grave a moment afterwards. 

“ You must never say what is not true,” she said. “ It 
is wrong to deceive any one, — even in a small matter.” 

Duprez gazed up at her wonderingly, feeling very much 
like a chidden child. 

“ Never say what is not true ! ” he thought. “ Mon 
Dieu I what would become of my life ? ” 


144 


THELMA. 


It was a new suggestion, and he reflected upon it with 
astonishment. It opened such a wide vista of impossibili- 
ties to his mind. 

Meanwhile old Guldmar was engaged in pouring out 
wine for the other j'^oung men, talking all the time. 

“ 1 tell thee, Thelma mine,” he said seriously , “ something 
must be very wrong with our Sigurd. The poor lad has 
always been gentle and tractable, but to-day he was like 
some wild animal for mischief and hardihood. I grieve to 
see it ! I fear the time may come when he may no longer 
be a safe servant for thee, child I ” 

“Oh, father ! ” — and the girl’s voice was full of tender 
anxiety — “ surely not ! He is too fond of us to do us any 
harm — he is so docile and affectionate ! ” 

“ Maybe, maybe ! ” and the old farmer shook his head 
doubtfully. “ But when the wits are away the brain is like 
a ship without ballast — there is no safe sailing possible. 
He would not mean, any harm, perhaps, — and yet in his 
wild moods he might do it, and be sorry for it directly 
afterwards. ’Tis little use to cry when the mischief is done, 
— and I confess I do not like his present humor.” 

“ By-the-by,” observed Lorimer, “ that reminds me ! 
Sigurd has taken an uncommonly strong aversion to Phil. 
It’s curious but it’s a fact. Perhaps it is that which upsets 
his nerves ? ” 

“ I have noticed it myself,” said Errington, “ and I’m 
sorry for it, for I’ve done him no harm that I can remem- 
ber. He certainly asked* me to go away from the Alten- 
flord, and I refused, — I’d no idea he had any serious mean- 
ing in his request. But it’s evident he can’t endure my 
company.” 

“ Ah, then 1 ” said Thelma simply and sorrowfully, “ he 
must be very ill, — because it is natural for every one to 
like you.” 

She spoke in perfect good faith and innocence of heart ; 
but Errington’s eyes flashed and he smiled — one of those 
rare, tender smiles of his which brightened his whole visage. 

‘‘ You are very kind to say so. Miss Guldmar ! ” 

“ It is not kindness ; it is the truth ! ”'she replied frankly. 

At that moment a very rosy face and two sparkling eyes 
peered in at the door. 

“ Yes, Britta ! ” Thelma smiled ; “ we are quite ready ! ” 

Whereupon the face disappeared, and Olaf Guldmar led 
the way into the kitchen, which was at the same time the 


TEE LAND OF TEE MIDNIGET SUN. 


145 


dining-room, and where a substantial supper was spread on 
the polished pine table. 

The farmer’s great arm-chair was brought in for Dupr^z, 
who, though he declared he was being spoilt by too much 
attention, seemed to enjoy it immensely, — and they were 
all, including Britta, soon clustered round the hospitable 
board whereon antique silver and quaint glasses of foreign 
make sparkled bravely, their effect enhanced by the snowy 
whiteness of the homespun table-linen. 

A few minutes set them all talking gaily. Macfarlane 
vied with the ever-gallant Dupr^z in making a few compli- 
ments to Britta, who was pretty and engaging enough to 
merit attention, and who, after all, was something more 
than a mere servant, possessing, as she did, a great deal of 
her young mistress’s affection and confidence, and being 
always treated by Giildmar himself as one of the family. 
There was no reserve or coldness in the party, and the hum 
of their merry voices echoed up to the cross-rafters of the 
stout wooden ceiling and through the open door and window, 
from whence a patch of the gorgeous afternoon sky could 
be seen, glimmering redly, like a distant lake of fire. They 
were in the full enjoyment of their repast, and the old 
farmer’s rollicking “ ^a, ha, ha ! ” in response to a joke of 
Lorimer’s, had just echoed jovially through the room, 
when a strong, harsh voice called aloud — “ Olaf Gtild- 
mar I ” 

There was a sudden silence. Each one looked at the 
other in surprise. Again the voice called — “ Olaf Giild- 
mar I ” 

“ Well I ” roared the bonde testily, turning sharply round 
in his chair, “ who calls me? ” 

“I do ! ” and the tall, emaciated figure of a woman an- 
vanced and stood on the threshold, without actually enter- 
ing the room. She dropped the black shawl that enveloped 
her, and, in so doing, disordered her hair, which fell in 
white, straggling locks about her withered features, and 
her dark eyes gleamed maliciously as she fixed them on the 
assembled party. Britta, on perceiving her, uttered a faint 
shriek, and without considering the propriety of her action, 
buried her nut-brown curls and sparkling eyes in Duprez’s 
coat-sleeve, which, to do the Frenchman justice, was ex- 
ceedingly prompt to receive and shelter its fair burden. The 
bonde rose from his chair, and his face grew stern. 

“ What do you here^ Lovisa Elsland ? Have j^ou walkcfl 


146 


THELMA. 


thus far from Talvig to pay a visit that must needs be um 
welcome ? 

“ Unwelcome I know I am,” replied Lovisa, disdainfully 
noting the terror of Britta and the astonished glances of 
Errington and his friends — “ unwelcome at all times, — ^but 
most unwelcome at the hour of feasting and folly, — for who 
can endure to receive a message from the Lord when the 
mouth is full of savory morsels, and the brain reels with the 
wicked wine ? Yet I have come in spite of your iniquities, 
Olaf Guldmar, — strong in the strength of the Lord, I dare 
to set foot upon your accursed threshold, and once more 
make my just demand. Give me back the child of my dead 
daughter I . . . , restore to me the erring creature who 
should be the prop of my defenceless age, had not your 
pagan spells alienated her from me, — release her, — and bid 
her return with me to my desolate hearth and home. This 
done, — I will stay the tempest that threatens your habita- 
tion — I will hold back the dark cloud of destruction — I will 
avert the wrath of the Lord, — ^yes I for the sake of the past 
— for the sake of the past I ” 

These last words she muttered in a low tone, more to 
herself than to Guldmar ; and, having spoken, she averted 
her eyes from the company, drew her shawl closely about 
her, and waited for an answer. 

“ By all the gods of my fathers 1 ” shouted the honde in a 
towering passion. “ This passes my utmost endurance 1 
Have I not told thee again and again, thou silly soul I . . 

. that thy grandchild is no slave ? She is free — free to 
return to thee an’ she will ; free also to stay with us, where 
she has found a happier home than thy miserable hut at 
Talvig. Britta ! ” and he thumped his fist on the table. 
“Look up, child! Speak for thyself! Thou hast a spirit 
of thine own. Here is thy one earthly relation. Wilt go 
with her? Neither thy mistress nor I will stand in the 
way of thy pleasure.” 

Thus adjured Britta looked up so suddenly that Dupr^z, 
— who had rather enjoyed the feel of her little nestling 
head hidden upon his arm, — was quite startled, and he was 
still more so at the utter defiance that hashed into the 
small maiden’s round, rosy face. 

“ Go with you ! ” she cried shrilly, addressing the old 
woman, who remained standing in the same attitude, with 
an air of perfect composure. “ Do you think 1 have for- 
gotten how you treated my mother, or how you used to 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


147 


I 

I 


beat me and starve me ? You wicked old woman I How 
dare you come here? I’m ashamed of you! You fright- 
ened my mother to death — you know you did I . . . . 

and now you want to do the same to me I But you won’t 
— I can tell you I I’m old enough to do as I like, and I’d 
rather die than live with you I ” 

Then, overcome by excitement and temper, she burst 
out crying, heedless of Pierre Duprfez’s smiling nods of ap- 
proval, and the admiring remarks he was making under his 
breath, such as — “ Brava^ ma petite ! C^est hien fait! c'est 
joliment hien dit ! Mais je crois hien ! ” 

Lovisa seemed unmoved ; she raised her head and looked 
at Giildmar. 

“ Is this your answer ? ” she demanded. 

“ By the sword of Odin I ” cried the honde, “ the woman 
must be mad I My answer ? The girl has spoken for her- 
self, — and plainly enough too ! Art thou deaf, Lovisa Els- 
land ? or are thy wits astray ? ” 

“ My hearing is very good,” replied Lovisa calmlj^, “ and 
my mind, Olaf Giildmar, is as clear as yours. And, thanks 
to your teaching in mine earl}'- days,” — she paused and 
looked keenly at him, but he appeared to see no meaning 
in her allusion, — “ I know the English tongue, of which we 
hear far too much, — too often 1 There is nothing Britta 
has said that I do not understand. But I know well it is 
not the girl herself that speaks — it is a demon in her, — 
and that demon shall be cast forth before I die ! Yea, with 

the help of the Lord I shall ” She stopped abruptl}^ 

and fixed her eyes, glowing with fierce wrath, on Thelma. 
The girl met her evil glance with a gentle surprise. Lovisa 
smiled malignantly. 

“You know me, I think 1” said Lovisa. “You have 
seen me before ? ” 

“ Often,” answered Thelma mildly. “ I have always 
been sorry for you.” 

“ Sorry for me I ” almost yelled the old woman. “ Why 
— why are you sorry for me ? ” 

“ Do not answer her, child 1 ” interrupted Giildmar an- 
grily. “ She is mad as the winds of a wild winter, and will 
but vex thee.” 

But Thelma laid her hand soothingly on her father’s, and 
smiled peacefully as she turned her fair face again towards 
Lovisa. 

“ Why ? ” she said, “ Because you seem so very lon«ly 


148 


THELMA. 


and sad — and that must make you cross with every one 
who is happy 1 And it is a pity, I think, that you do not 
let Britta alone — you only quarrel with each other when 
you meet. And would you not like her to think kindly of 
you when you are dead ? ” 

Lovisa seemed choking with anger, — her face worked 
into such hideous grimaces, that all present, save Thelma, 
were dismayed at her repulsive aspect. 

“ When I am dead I ” she muttered hoarsely. “ So you 
count upon that already, do you ? Ah I . . . hut do 

you know which of us shall die first I ” Then raising her 
voice with an effort she exclaimed — 

“ Stand forth, Thelma Guldmar 1 Let me see you closely 
— face to face 1 ” 

Errington said something in a low tone, and the honde 
would have again interfered, but Thelma shook her head, 
smiled and rose from her seat at table. 

“ Anything to soothe her, poor soul I ” she whispered, as 
she left Errington’s side and advanced towards Lovisa till 
she was within reach of the old woman’s hand. She looked 
like some grand white angel, who had stepped down ftom a 
cathedral altar, as she stood erect and stately with a 
gravely pitying expression in her lovely eyes, confronting 
the sable-draped, withered, leering hag, who fixed upon her 
a steady look of the most cruel and pitiless hatred. 

“ Daughter of Satan 1 ” said Lovisa then, in intense 
piercing tones that somehow carried with them a sense of 
awe and horror. “ Creature, in whose veins the fire of hell 
burns without ceasing, — my curse upon you I My curse 
upon the beauty of your body — may it grow loathsome in 
the sight of all men I May those who embrace you, embrace 
misfortune and ruin I — may love betray you and forsake you ! 
May your heart be broken even as mine has been ! — may 
your bridal bed be left deserted 1 — may your children wither 
and pine from their hour of birth ! Sorrow track you to 
the grave I — may your death be lingering and horrible ! 
God be my witness and fulfill my wqrds ! ” 

And, raising her arms with wild gesture, she turned and 
left the house. The spell of stupefied silence was broken 
with her disappearance. Old Giildmar prepared to rush 
after her and force her to retract her evil speech, — Erring- 
ton was furious, and Britta cried bitterly. The lazy Lori- 
mer was excited and annoyed. 

“ Fetch her back,” he said, “ and I’ll dance upon her! ” 


THE LAND OF THE 3nDNlGHT SUN. 


149 


But Thelma stood where the old woman had left her— . 
she smiled faintly, but she w’as veiy pale. Errington ap- 
t proached her, — she turned to him and stretched out her 
hands with a little appealing gesture. 

“ My friend,” she said softly, “ do you think I deserve 
so many curses? Is there something about me that is 
evil ? ” 

What Errington would have answered is doubtful, — his 
heart beat wildl}^— he longed to draw those little hands in 
his own, and cover them with passionate kisses, — but he 
was intercepted by old Giildmar, who caught his daughter 
in his arms and hugged her closely, his silvery beard 
mingling with the gold of her rippling* hair. 

“ Never fear a wicked tongue, my bird ! ” said the old 
man fondly. “ There is naught of harm that would touch 
thee either on earth or in heaven, — and a foul-mouthed curse 
must roll off thy soul like water from a dove’s wing I 
Cheer thee, my darling — cheer thee I What ! Thine own 
creed teaches thee that the gentle Mother of Christ, with 
her little white angels round her, watches over all innocent 
maids, — and thinkest thou she will let an old woman’s 
malice and envy blight thy young days ? No, no! Thoit 
accursed ? ” And the bonde laughed loudly to hide the 
! tears that moistened his keen eyes. “ Thou art the sweet- 
I est blessing of my heart, even as thy mother was before 
i thee 1 Come, come 1 Raise thy pretty head — here are 
these merry lads growing long-fe.ced, — and Britta is weep- 
ing enough salt water to fill a bucket I One of thy smiles 
will set us all right again, — ay, there now I ” — as she looked 
up and, meeting Philip’s eloquent eyes, blushed, and with- 
drew herself gently from her father’s arms, — “ Let us finish 
our supper and think no more of yonder villainous old hag 
— she is crazy, I believe, and knows not what she says half 
her time. Now, Britta, cease thy grunting and sighing — 
’twill spoil thy face and will not mend the hole in thy grand- 
mother s brain ! ” 

‘‘Wicked, spiteful, ugly old thing!” sobbed Britta; 
“ I’ll never, never, never forgive her 1 ” Then, running to 
Thelma, she caught her hand and kissed it affectionately. 
“ Oh, my dear, my dear ! To think she should have cursed 
you, what dreadful, dreadful wickedness ! Oh 1 ” and 
Britta looked volumes of wrath. “ I could have beaten her 
black and blue I ” 

Her vicious eagerness was almost comic — every one 


150 


THELMA. 


laughed, including Thelma, though she pressed the hand ol 
her little servant very warmly. 

“ Oh fie ! ” said Lorimer seriously. “ Little girls mustn’t 
whip their grandmothers; it’s specially forbidden in the 
Prayer-book, isn’t it, Phil ?” 

“ I’m sure I don’t know I ” replied Errington merrily. 
“ I believe there is something to the effect that a man may 
not marry his grandmother — perhaps that is what you 
mean ? ” 

“ Ah, no doubt ! ” murmured Lorimer languidly, as, with 
the others, he resumed his seat at the supper-table. “ I 
knew there was a special mandate respecting one’s particu- 
larly venerable relations, with a view to self-guidance in case 
they should prove troublesome, like Britta’s good grand- 
mamma. What a frightfully picturesque mouthing old 
lady she is I ” 

“ She is la petroleuse of Norway I ” exclaimed Duprez. 
“ She would make an admirable dancer in the Carmagnole ! ” 

Macfarlane, who had preserved a discreet silence through- 
out the whole scene, here looked up. 

“ She’s just a screech-owl o’ mistaken piety,” he said. 
“ She minds me o’ a glowerin’ auld warlock of an aunt o’ 
mine in Glasgie, wha sits in her chair a’ day wi’ ae finger 
on the Bible. She says she’s gaun straight to heaven by 
special invitation o’ the Lord, leavin’ a’ her blood relations 
howlin’ vainly after her from their roastin’ fires down 
below. Ma certes I she’ll give ye a good rousin’ curse if 
ye like I She’s cursed me ever since I can remember her, 
— cursed me in and out from sunrise to sunset, — but I’m no 
the worse for’t as 3"et,— an’ it’s dootful whether she’s any 
the better.” 

“ And yet Lovisa Elsland used to be as merry and lissom 
a lass as ever stepped,” said Guldmar musingly. “ I re- 
member her well when both she and I were young. I was 
always on the sea ar that time, — never happy unless the 
waves tossed me and my vessel from one shore to another. 
I suppose the re. t.ess spirit of my fathers was in me. I 
was never conten ,ed unless I saw som^ )w coast every six 
months or so. Well! Lovba was always fore- 

most among the girls of the village who watched me leave 
the Fjord, — and however long or short a time I might be 
absent, she was certain to be on the shore when my ship 
came sailing home again. Many a joke I have cracked with 
her and her companions— and she was a bonnie enougb 


TBE LAND OF TBE MIDNIGBT SUN. 


151 


creature to look at then, I tell you, — though now she is 
like a battered figure-head on a wreck. Her marriage, 
spoiled her temper, — her husband was as dark and sour a 
man as could be met with in all Norway, and when he and 
his fishing-boat sank in a squall off the Lofoden Islands, 1 
doubt if she shed many tears for his loss. Her only 
daughter’s husband went down in the same storm, — and he 
but three months wedded, — and the girl, — Britta’s mother, 

' — pined and pined, and even when her child was born took 
no sort of comfort in it. She died four years after Britta’s 
birth — her death was hastened, so I have heard, through 
old Lovisa’s harsh treatment, — anyhow the little lass she 
left behind her had no very easy time of it all alone with 
her grandmother, — eh Britta ? ” 

Britta looked up and shook her head emphatically. 

“ Then,” went on Giildmar, “ when my girl came back 
the last time from France, Britta chanced to see her, and, 
strangely enough,” — here he winked shrewdly — “ took a 
fancy to her fece, — odd, wasn’t it ? However, nothing 
would suit her but that she must be Thelma’s handmaiden, 
and here she is. Now you know her history, — she would 
be happy enough if her grandmother would let her alone ; 
but the silly old woman thinks the girl is under a spell, and 
that Thelma is the witch that works it ; ” — and the old 
farmer laughed. “ There’s a grain of truth in the notion 
■ too, but not in the way she has of looking at it.” 

“ All women are witches I ” said Duprez. “ Britta is a 
little witch herself I ” 

Britta’s rosy cheeks grew rosier at this, and she tossed 
her chestnut curls with an air of saucy defiance that de- 
lighted the Frenchman. He forgot his wounded cheek and 
his disfiguring bandages in the contemplation of the little 
plump figure, cased in its close-fitting scarlet bodice, and the 
tempting rosy lips that were in such close proximity to his 
touch. 

“ If it were not for those red hands I ” he thought. 
“ Dieu ! what a charming child she would be I One would 
instantly kill the grandmother and kiss the granddaughter ! ” 

And he watched her with admiration as she busied her- 
self about the supper^table, attending to every one with 
diligence and care, but reserving her special services for 
Thelma, whom she waited on with a mingled tenderness, and 
reverence, that were both touching and pretty to see. 

The conversation now became general, and nothing fux- 


THELMA. 


152 

ther occurred to disturb the harmony and hilarity of the 
party — only Errington seemed somewhat abstracted, and 
answered many questions that were put to him at hap- 
hazard, without knowing, or possibly caring, whether his 
replies were intelligible or incoherent. His thoughts were 
dreamlike and brilliant with fairy sunshine. He under- 
stood at last what poets meant by their melodious musings, 
woven into golden threads of song — he seemed to have 
grasped some hitherto unguessed secret of his being — a 
secret that filled him with as much strange pain as pleas- 
ure. He felt as though he were endowed with a thousand 
senses, — each one keeid}^ alive and sensitive to the smallest 
touch, — and there was a pulsation in his blood that was new 
and beyond his control, — a something that beat wildly in 
his heart at the sound of Thelma’s voice, or the passing 
flutter of her white garments near him. Of what use to 
disguise it from himself any longer ? He loved her I The 
terrible, beautiful tempest of love had broken over his life 
at last ; there was no escape from its thunderous passion 
and dazzling lightning glory. 

He drew a sharp quick breath — the hum of the gay 
voices around him was more meaningless to his ears than 
the sound of the sea breaking on the beach below. He 
glanced at the girl — the fair and innocent creature who had, 
in his imagination, risen to a throne of imperial height, 
from whence she could bestow on him death or salvation. 
How calm she seemed I She was listening with courteous 
patience to a long story of Macfarlane’s w'hose Scotch 
accent rendered it difficult for her to understand. She was 
pale, Philip thought, and her eyes were heavy ; but she 
smiled now and then, — such a smile 1 Even so sweetly 
might the “ kiss-worthy ” lips of the Greek Aphrodite part, 
could that eloquent and matchless marble for once breathe 
into life. He looked at her with a sort of fear. Her hands 
held his fate. What if she could not love him ? What if 
he must lose her utterly ? This idea overpowered him ; his 
brain whirled, and he suddenly pushed away his untasted 
glass of wine, and rose abruptly from the table, heedless of 
the surprise his action excited. 

“ Hullo, Phil, where are you off to ? ” cried Lorimer. 
“ Wait for me I ” 

“ Tired of our company, my lad ? ” said Glildmar kindly, 
“ You’ve had a long day of it, — and what with the climbing 
and the strong air, no doubt you’ll be glad to turn in-^’ 


TEE LAND OF TEE MIDNIGET SUN. 


153 


“ Upon my life, sir,” answered Errington, with some con- 
fusion, “ I don’t know why I got up just now ! I was 
thinking, — I’m rather a dreamy sort of fellow sometimes, 
and ” 

“ He was asleep, and doesn’t want to own it I ” inter- 
rupted Lorimer sententiously. “ You will excuse him ; he 
means well I He looks rather seedy. I think, Mr. Giild- 
mar, we’ll be off to the yacht. By the way, you’re coming 
with us to-morrow, aren’t you ? ” 

“ Oh yes,” said Thelma. “We will sail with you round 
by Sorbe, — it is weird and dark and grand ; but I think it 
is beautiful. And there are many stories of the elves and 
berg-folk, who are said to dwell there among the deep ra- 
vines. Have you heard about the berg-folk ?” she con- 
tinued, addressing herself to Errington, unaware of the 
effort he was making to appear cool and composed in her 
presence. “ No? Then I must tell you to-morrow.” 

They all walked out of the house into the porch, and 
while her father was interchanging farewells with the oth- 
ers, she looked at Sir Philip’s grave face with some solici- 
tude. 

“ I am afraid you are very tired, my friend ? ” she asked 
softly, “ or your head aches, — and you suffer ? ” 

He caught her hands swiftly and raised them to his lips. 

“ Would you care much, — would you care at all, if I suf- 
fered ? ” he murmured in a low tone. 

Then before she could speak or move, he let go her hands 
again, and turned with his usual easy courtesy to Giildmar. 
“ Then we may expect you without fail to-morrow, sir I 
Good night I ” 

“ Good night, my lad I ” 

And with many hearty salutations the young men took 
their departure, raising their hats to Thelmaas they turned 
down the winding path to the shore. She remained stand- 
ing near her father, — and, when the sound of their foot- 
steps had died away, she drew closer still and laid her head 
against his breast. 

“ Cold, my bird ? ” queried the old man. “ Why, thou art 
shivering, child I — and yet the sunshine is as warm as wine. 
What ails thee ? ” 

“ Nothing, father I ” And she raised her eyes, glowing 
and brilliant as stars. “ Tell me, — do you think often of 
my mother now I ” 

“ Often 1 ” And Guldmar’s fine resolute face grew sad 


154 


THELMA. 


and tender. “ She is never absent from my mind I I see her 
night and day, a}'^ I I can feel her soft arms clinging round 
my neck, — why dost thou ask so strange a question, little 
one ? Is it possible to forget what has been once loved ? ” 
Thelma was silent for many minutes. Then she kissed 
her father and said “ good night.” He held her by the hand 
and looked at her with a sort of vague anxiety. 

“ Art thou well, my child ? ” he asked. “ This little hand 
burns like fire, — and thine eyes are too bright, surelj^ for 
sleep to visit them ? Art sure that nothing ails thee ? ” 

“ Sure, quite sure,” answered the girl with a strange, 
dreamy smile. “ I am quite well, — and happy I ” 

And she turned to enter the house. 

“ Stay ! ” called the father. “ Promise me thou wilt think 
no more of Lovisa I ” 

“ I had nearl}’^ forgotten her,” she responded. “ Poor 
thing I She cursed me because she is so miserable, I sup- 
pose — all alone and unloved ; it must be hard I Curses 
sometimes turn to blessings, father I Good night ! ” 

And she ascended the one flight of wooden stairs in the 
house to her own bedroom — a little three-cornered place as 
clean and white as the interior of a shell. Never once 
glancing at the small mirror that seemed to invite her 
charms to reflect themselves therein, she went to the quaint 
latticed window and knelt down by it, folding her arms on 
the sill while she looked far out to the Fjord. She could 
see the English flag fluttering from the masts of the Eula- 
lie ; she could almost hear the steady plash of the oars 
wielded by Errington and his friends as they rowed them- 
selves back to the j^acht. Bright tears filled her eyes, and 
brimmed over, falling warmly on her folded hands. 

“ Would I care if you suftered?” she whispered. “Oh, 
my love I . . . my love ! ” 

Then, as if afraid lest the very winds should have heard 
her half-breathed exclamation, she shut her window in 
haste, and a hot blush crimsoned her cheeks. 

Undressing quickly, she slipped into her little white bed 
and, closing her eyes, fancied she slept, though her sleep 
was but a waking dream of love in which all bright hopes 
reached their utmost fulfillment, and yet were in some 
strange way crossed with shadows which she had no power 
to disperse. And later on, when old Giildmar slumbered 
soundly, and the golden mid-night sunshine lit up every 
ttook and gable of the farmhouse with its lustrous glory,-— 


TBE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


155 


making Thelma’s closed lattice sparkle like a carven jewel, 
— a desolate figure lay prone on the grass beneath her win- 
dow, with meagre pale face, and wide-open wild blue eyes 
upturned to the fiery brillancy of the heavens. Sigurd 
had come home ; — Sigurd was repentant, sorrowful, 
ashamed, — and broken-hearted. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

‘‘ O Love ! O Love ! O Gateway of Delight ! 

Thou porch of peace, thou pageant of the prime 
Of all God’s creatures ! I am here to climb 
Thine upward steps, and daily and by night 
To gaze beyond them and to search aright 
The far-off splendor of thy track sublime.” 

Eric Mack ay’s Love-letters of a Violinist. 

On the following morning the heat was intense, — no 
breath of wind stirred a ripple on the Fjord, and there was 
a heaviness in the atmosphere which made the very bright- 
ness of the sky oppressive. Such hot weather was unusual 
for that part of Norway, and according to Valdemar Sven- 
sen, betokened some change. On board the Eulalie every- 
thing was ready for the trip to Sorbe, — steam was getting 
up prior to departure, — and a group of red-capped sailors 
stood prepared to weigh the anchor as soon as the signal 
was given. Breakfast was over, — Macfarlane was in the 
saloon writing his journal, which he kept with great ex- 
actitude, and Duprez, who, on account of his wound, was 
considered something of an invalid, was seated in a lounge 
chair on deck, delightedly turning over a bundle of inflam- 
matory French political journals received that morning. 
Errington and Lorimer were pacing the deck arm in arm, 
keeping a sharp look-out for the first glimpse of the re- 
turning boat which had been sent off to fetch Thelma and 
her father. Errington looked vexed and excited, — Lorimer 
bland and convincing. 

“ I can’t help it, Phil ! ” he said. “ It’s no use fretting 
and fuming at me. It was like Dyceworthy’s impudence, 
of course, — but there’s no doubt he proposed to her, — and 
it’s equally certain that she rejected him. I thought I’d 
tell you you had a rival, — not in me, as you seemed to 
think yesterday, — but in our holy fat friend.” 

“Rival! pshaw!” returned Errington, with an angry 
laugh. “ He is not worth kicking ! ” 


156 


THELMA. 


“ Possibly not 1 Still I have a presentiment that he’s 
the sort of fellow that won’t take ‘ no ’ for an answer. 
He’ll dodge that poor girl and make her life miserable if he 
can, unless ” 

“ Unless what ? ” asked Philip quickly. 

Lorimer stopped in his walk, and, leaning against the 
deck-railings, looked his friend straight in the eyes. 

“ Unless you settle the matter,” he said with a slight ef- 
fort. “ You love her, — tell her so I ” 

Errington laid one hand earnestly on his shoulder. 

“ Ah, George, you don’t understand ! ” he said in a low 
tone, while his face was grave and full of trouble. “ I 
used to think I was fairly brave, but I find I am a positive 
coward. I dare not tell her I She — Thelma — is not like 
other women. You may think me a fool, — I dare say yon 
do, — but I swear to you I am afraid to speak, because — be- 
cause, old boy, — if she were to refuse me, — if I knew there 
was no hope — well, I don’t want to be sentimental, — but 
my life would be utterly empty and worthless, — so useless, 
that I doubt if I should care to live it out to the bitter 
end I ” 

Lorimer heard him in silence, — a silence maintained 
partly out of sympathy, and partly that he might keep his 
own feelings well under control. 

“ But why persist in looking at the gloomy side of the 
picture? ” he said at last. “ Suppose she loves you ? ” 

“ Suppose an angel flew down from Heaven I ” replied 
Philip, with rather a sad smile. “ My dear fellow, who am 
I that I should flatter myself so far ? If she were one of 
those ordinary women to whom marriage is the be-all and 
end-all of existence, it would be different — but she is not. 
Her thoughts are like those of a child or a poet, — why 
should I trouble them by the selfishness of my passion ? 
for all passion is selfish, even at its best. Why should I 
venture to break the calm friendship she may have for me, 
by telling her of a love which might prove unwelcome ! ” 

Lorimer looked at him with gentle amusement depicted 
in his fece. 

“ Phil, you are less conceited than I thought you were,” 
he said, with a light laugh, “ or else you are blind — blind 
as a bat, old man ! Take my advice, — don’t lose any more 
time about it. Make the ‘king’s daughter of Norroway’ 

happy, ” and a brief sigh escaped him, 

** You are the man to do it. I am surprised at your 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


157 


density’’ ; Sigurd, the lunatic, has more perception. He 
sees which way the wind blows, — and that’s why he’s so 
desperately unhappy. He thinks— and thinks rightly too 
— that he will lose his ‘ beautiful rose of the northern for- 
est,’ as he calls her, — and that you are to be the robber. 
Hence his dislike to you. Dear me ! ” and Lorimer lit a 
cigarette and puffed at it complacently. “ It seems to me 
that my wits are becoming sharper as I grow older, and 
that yours, my dear boy, — pardon me ! . . . are get- 

ting somewhat blunted, otherwise you would certainly 
have perceived ” he broke off abruptly. 

“ Well, go on! ” exclaimed Philip eagerly, with flashing 
eyes. “ Perceived what ? ” 

Lorimer laughed. “ That the boat containing your Sun- 
empress is coming along very rapidly, old fellow, and that 
you’d better make haste to receive her ! ” 

This was the fact, and Duprez had risen from his chair 
and was waving his French newspaper energetically to the 
approaching visitors. Errington hastened to the gangway 
with a brighter flush than usual on his handsome face, and 
his heart beating with a new sense of exhilaration and ex- 
citement. If Lorimer ’s hints had any foundation of truth 
— if Thelma loved him ever so little — how wild a dream it 
seemed I . . . why not risk his fate ? He resolved to 

speak to her that very day if opportunity favored him, — 
and, having thus decided, felt quite masterful and heroic 
about it. 

This feeling of proud and tender elation increased when 
Thelma stepped on deck that morning and laid her hands 
in his. For, as he greeted her and her father, he saw at a 
glance that she was slightly changed. Some restless 
dream must have haunted her — or his hurried words be- 
neath the porch, when he parted from her the previous 
evening, had startled her and troubled her mind. Her blue 
eyes were no longer raised to his in absolute candor, — her 
voice was timid, and she had lost something of her usual 
buoyant and graceful self-possession. But she looked love- 
lier than ever with that air of shy hesitation and appealing 
sweetness. Love had thrown his network of light about 
her soul and body till, like Keats’s “ Madeleine,” 

“ She seemed a splendid angel newly drest 
Save wings, for heaven ! ” 

As soon as the Guldmars were on board, the anchor was 


158 


THELMA. 


weighed with many a cheery and musical cry from the 
sailors; the wheel revolved rapidly under Valdemar Sven- 
sen’s firm hand,— and with a grand outward sweeping 
curtsy to the majestic Fjord she left behind her, the Eulalie 
steamed away, cutting a glittering line of white foam 
through the smooth water as she went, and threading her 
way swiftly among the clustering picturesque islands, — - 
while the inhabitants of every little farm and hamlet on 
the shores, stopped for a while in their occupations to stare 
at the superb vessel, and to dreamily envy the wealth of 
the English Herren who could afibrd to pass the summer 
months in such luxury and idleness. Thelma seated her- 
self at once by Duprez, and seemed glad to divert atten- 
tion from herself to him. 

“You are better. Monsieur Duprez, are you not ?” she 
asked gently. “We saw Sigurd this morning; he came 
home last night. He is very, very sorry to have hurt 
you ! ” 

“ He need not apologize,” said Duprez cheerfully. “ I 
am delighted he gave me this scar, otherwise I am confi- 
dent he would have put out the eye of Phil-eep. And that 
would have been a misfortune ! For what would the ladies 
in London say if le beau Errington returned to them with 
one eye ! Mon Dieu! they would all be en desespoir! ” 

Thelma looked up. Philip was standing at some little 
distance with Olaf Guldmar and Lorimer, talking and 
laughing gaily. His cap was slightly pushed off his fore- 
head, and the sun shone on his thick dark-chestnut curls ; 
his features, warmly colored by the wind and sea, were lit 
up with mirth, and his even white teeth sparkled in an ir- 
resistible smile of fascinating good-humor. He was the 
beau-ideal of the best type of Englishman, in the full tide 
of 3"outh, health and good spirits. 

“ I suppose he is a great favorite with all those beautiful 
ladies ? ” she asked very quietly. 

Something of gentle resignation in her tone struck the 
Frenchman’s sense of chivalry ; had she been like any or- 
dinary woman, bent on conquest, he would have taken a 
mischievous delight in inventing a long list of fair ones 
supposed to be deeply enamored of Errington’s good looks, 
— but this girl’s innocent inquiring face inspired him with 
quite a different sentiment. 

“ Mats cerlainement 1 ” he said frankly and emphatically. 
“ Phil-eep is a favorite everywhere I Yet not ifiore so with 


TEE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


159 


women than with men. I love him extremely — he is a 
charming boy I Then you see, chere Mademoiselle^ he is 
rich, — very rich, — and there are so many pretty girls who 
are very poor, — naturally they are enchanted with our Er- 
rington — voyez-vous ? ” 

“ I do not understand,” she said, with a puzzled brow. 
“ It is not possible that they should like him better because 
he is rich. He would be the same man without money as 
with it — it makes no difference I ” 

“ Perhaps not to you,” returned Duprez, with a smile ; 
“ but to many it would make an immense difference I Chere 
Mademoiselle^ it is a grand thing to have plenty of money, 
— believe me ! ” 

Thelma shrugged her shoulders. “ Perhaps,” she an- 
swered indifferently. “ But one cannot spend much on 
one’s self, after all. The nuns at Arles used to tell me that 
poverty was a virtue, and that to be very rich was to be 
very miserable. They were poor, — all those good women, 
— and they were always cheerful.” 

“ The nuns I ah^ mon Dieu J ” cried Duprez. “ The 
darlings know not the taste of joy — they speak of what 
they cannot understand I How should they know what it is 
to be happ3^ or unhappy, when they bar their great convent 
doors against the veiy name of love I ” 

Slie looked at him, and her color rose. 

“ You alwaj^s talk of Zove,” she said, half reproachfully, 
“ as if it were so common a thing ! You know it is sacred 
— why will you speak as if it were all a jest ? ” 

A strange emotion of admiring tenderness stirred Pierre’s 
heart — he was A^ery impulsive and impressionable. 

“ Forgive me I ” he murmured penitently. Then he 
added suddenly, “ You should haA^e lived ages ago, ma helle^ 
— the world of to-day will not suit you I You will be made 
very sorrowful in it, I assure you, — it is not a place for 
good women I ” 

She laughed. “ You are morose,” she said. “ That is 
not like you I No one is good, — we all live to try and make 
ourselves better.” 

“What highly moral converse is going on here?” in- 
quired Lorimer, strolling leisurely up to them. “ Are you 
giving Duprez a lecture. Miss Guldmar ? He needs it, — so 
do I. Please giA^e me a scolding I ” 

And he folded his hands with an air of demure appeal. 

A sunn^ smile danced in the girl’s blue eyes. “ Always 


160 


THELMA. 


3 ^ou will be foolish 1 ” she said. “ One can never know you 
because I am sure you never show your real self to any- 
body. No, — I will not scold you, but I should like to find 
you out I ” 

“ To find me out 1 ” echoed Lorimer. “ Why, what do 
you mean ? ” 

She nodded her bright head with much sagacity. 

“ Ah, I do observe you often I There is something you 
hide ; it is like when my father has tears in his eyes ; he 
pretends to laugh, but the tears are there all the time. Now 

I see in you ” she paused, and her questioning eyes 

rested on his, seriously. 

“ This is interesting I ” said Lorimer, lazily drawing a 
camp-stool opposite to her, and seating himself thereon. 
“ I had no idea I was a human riddle. Can you read me. 
Miss Giildmar ? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered slowly and meditatively. “ Just a 
little. But I will not say anything; no — except this — 
that you are not altogether what you seem.” 

“ Here, Phil ! ” called Lorimer, as he saw Errington ap- 
proaching, arm in arm with Olaf Giildmar, “ come and 
admire this young lady’s power of perception. She declares 
I am not such a fool as I look I ” 

“ Now,” said Thelma, shaking her forefinger at him, “ j^ou 
know very well that I did not put it in that way. But is 

it not true. Sir Philip ” and she looked up for a moment, 

though her eyes drooped again swiftly under his ardent 
gaze, “is it not true that many people do hide their feel- 
ings, and pretend to be quite different to what they are ? ” 

“ I should say it was a 'j^ry common fault,” replied Er- 
rington. “ It is a means of self-defense against the imper- 
tinent curiosity of outsiders. But Lorimer is free from it, 

' — he has nothing to hide. At any rate, he has no secrets 
from me, — I’m sure of that!” And he clapped his hand 
heartily on his friend’s shoulder. 

Lorimer flushed slightly, but made no remark, and at that 
moment Macfarlane emerged from the saloon, where the 
writing of his journal had till now detained him. In the 
general handshaking and salutations which followed, the 
conversation took a different turn, for which Lorimer was 
devoutly thankful. His face was a tell-tale one, — and he 
was rather afraid of Philip’s keen eyes. “ I hope to Heaven 
he’ll speak to her to-day,” he thought, vexedly. “ I hate 
being in suspense ! My mind will be easier when I once 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


161 


know that he has gained his point, — and that there’s not 
the ghost of a chance for SLny other fellow I ” 

Meanwhile the yacht skimmed along by the barren and 
rocky coast of Seiland ; the sun was dazzling ; 3^et there 
was a mist in the air as though the heavens were full of 
unshed tears. A bank of nearly motionless clouds hung 
behind the dark, sharp peaks of the Altenguard mountains, 
which now lay to the southward, as the vessel pursued her ' 
course. There was no wind ; the flag on the mast flapped 
idly now and then with the motion of the yacht ; and 
Thelma found herself too warm with her pretty crimson 
hood, — she therefore unfastened it and let the sunshine 
' play on the uncovered gold of her hair. They had a superb 
view of the jagged glacier of Jedke, — black in some parts, 
and in others white with unmelted snow, — and seeming, as it 
rose straight up against the sk^", to be the majestic mon- 
ument of some giant Viking. Presently, at her earnest 
request, Errington' brought his portfolio of Norwegian 
sketches for Thelma to look at ; most of them were ex- 
cellently well done, and elicited much admiration from the 
honde. 

“ It is what I have wondered at all m^^ life,” said he, 

“ that skill of the brush dipped in color. Pictures sur- 
prise me as much as poems. Ah, men are marvellous 
creatures, when they are once brought to understand that 
they are men, — not beasts I One will take a few words and 
harmonize them into a song or a verse that clings to the 
world for ever ; another will mix a few paints and dab a 
brush in them, and give you a picture that generation after 
generation shall flock to see. It is what is called genius, 
— and genius is a sort of miracle. Yet I think it is fos- 
tered by climate a good deal, — the further north, the less 
inspiration. Warmth, color, and the lightness of heart that 
a generally bright sky brings, enlarges the brain and makes 
it capable of creative power.” 

“ My dear sir,” said Lorimer, ‘‘ England does not possess 
these climatic advantages, and yet Shakespeare was an Eng- 
lishman.” 

“ He must have travelled,” returned Giildmar positively. 
“No one will make me believe that the man never visited 
Italj". His Italian scenes prove it, — the^^ are full of the 
place and the people. The whole of his works, full of such 
wonderful learning, and containing so many types of differ- 
ent nations, show, — to my mind, at least, — that countries 

U 


162 


THELMA. 


were his books of study. Why I, who am only a farmer 
and proprietor of a bit of Norwegian land, — I have learned 
many a thing from simply taking a glance at a new shore 
each year. That’s the way I used to amuse myself when 
I was 3^oung, — now I am old, the sea tempts me less, and I 
am fonder of my arm-chair ; yet I’ve seen a good deal in 
my time — enough to provide me with memories for my de- 
clining days. ' And it’s a droll thing, too,” he added, with 
a laugh, “ the further south you go, the more immoral and 
merry are the people ; the further north, the more virtuous 
and miserable. There’s a wrong balance somewhere, — but 
where, ’tis not easy to find out.” 

“ Weel,” said Macfarlane, ‘‘ I can give ye a direct contra- 
deection to your theory. Scotland lies to the north, and 
ye’ll not find a grander harvest o’ sinfu’ souls anywhere be- 
tween this an’ the day o’ judgment. I’m a Scotchman, an’ 
I’m just proud o’ my country — I’d back its men against a’ 
the human race, — ^l)ut I wadna say much for the stabeelity 
o’ its women. I wad just tak to my heels and run if I saw 
a real, thumpin’, red-cheeked, big-boned Scotch lassie 
makin’ up to me. There’s nae bashfulness in they sort, and 
nae safety.” 

“ I will go to Scotland I ” said Duprez enthusiastically. 

I feel that those — what do you call them, lassies? — will 
charm me ! ” 

“ Scotland I never saw,” said Giildmar. From all I have 
heard, it seems to me ’twould be too much like Norway. 
After one’s eyes have rested long on these dark mountains 
and glaciers, one likes now and then to see a fertile sun- 
shiny stretch of country such as France, or the plains of 
Lombardy. Of course there may be exceptions, but I tell 
you climatic influences have a great deal to do with the 
state of mind and morals. Now, take the example of that 
miserable old Lovisa E Island. She is the victim of relig- 
ious mania — and religious mania, together with supersti- 
tion of the most foolish kind, is common in Norway. It 
happens often during the long winters ; the people have not 
sufficient to occupy their minds ; no clergyman — not even 
Dyceworthy — can satisfy the height of their fanaticism. 
They preach and pray and shriek and groan in their huts ; 
some swear that they have the spirit of prophecy, — others 
that they are possessed of devils, — others imagine witch- 
craft, like Lovisa — and altogether there is such a howling 
on the name of Christ, that I am glad to be out of it,— for 


TEE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


163 


’tis a sight to awaken the laughter and contempt of a pagan 
such as I am ! ” 

Thelma listened with a slight shadow of pain on her 
features. 

“ Father is not a pagan,” she declared, turning to Lori- 
mer. “ How can one be pagan if one believes that there is 
good in everything, — and that nothing happens except for 
the best ? ” 

“ It sounds to me more Christian than pagan,” averred 
Lorimer, with a smile. “ But it’s no use appealing to me 
on such matters. Miss Guldmar. I am an advocate of the 
Law of Nothing. I remember a worthy philosopher who, 
— when he was in his cups, — earnestly assured me it was 
all right — ‘ everything was nothing, and nothing was every- 
thing.’ ‘ You are sure that is so ? ’ I would say to him. 
* My dear young friend — hie — I am positive ! I have — hie 
— worked out the problem with — hie — care ! ’ And he 
would shake me by the hand warmly, with a mild and moist 
smile, and would retire to bed walking sideways in the most 
amiable manner. I’m certain his ideas were correct as well 
as luminous.” 

They laughed, and then looking up saw that they were 
passing a portion of the coast of Seiland which was more 
than usually picturesque. Facing them was a great cav- 
ernous cleft in the rocks, tinted with a curious violet hue 
intermingled with bronze, — and in the strong sunlight 
these colors flashed with the brillancy of jewels, reflecting 
themselves in the pale slate-colored sea. By Errington’s 
orders the yacht slackened speed, and glided along with an 
almost noiseless motion, — and they were silent, listening to 
the dash and drip of water that fell invisibly from the top- 
pling crags that frowned above, while the breathless heat 
and stillness of the air added to the weird solemnity of the 
scene. They all rose from their chairs and leaned on the 
deck-rails, looking, but uttering no word. 

In one of these islands,” said Thelma at last, very softly 
. — ‘‘ it was either Seiland or Soroe — they once found the 
tomb of a great chief. There was an inscription outside 
that warned all men to respect it, but they laughed at the 
warning and opened the tomb. And they saw, seated in a 
stone chair, a skeleton with a gold crown on its head and a 
great carved seal in its hand, and at its feet there was a 
stone casket. The casket was broken open, and it was full 
of gold and jewels. Well, they took all the gold and 


164 


THELMA. 


jewels, and bulled the skeleton — and now, — do you know 
what happens ? At midnight a number of strange persons 
are seen searching on the shore and among the rocks for 
the lost treasure, and it is said they often utter cries of 
anger and despair. And those who robbed the tomb all 
died suddenly.” 

“ Served them right I ” said Lorimer. “ And now they 
are dead, I suppose the wronged ghosts don’t appear any 
more ? ” 

“ Oh yes, they do,” said Giildmar very seriously. “ If 
any sailor passes at midnight, and sees them or hears their 
cries, he is doomed.” 

“ But does he see or hear them ? ” asked Errington, with 
a smile. 

“ Well, I don’t know,” returned Giildmar, with a grave 
shake of his head. “ I’m not superstitious myself, but I 
should be sorry to say anything against the berg-folk. You 
see they may exist, and it’s no use offending them.” 

“ And what do ye mean by the berg-folk ? ” inquired 
Macfarlane. 

“ They are supposed to be the souls of persons who died 
impenitent,” said Thelma, “ and they are doomed to wan- 
der on the hills till the day of judgment. It is a sort of 
purgatory.” 

Duprez shook his fingers emphatically in the air. 

“ Ah, bah ! ” he said ; “ what droll things remain still in 
the world ! Yes, in spite of liberty, equality, fraternity 1 
You do not believe in foolish legends. Mademoiselle ? For 
example, — do you think you will suffer purgatory ? ” 

“ Indeed yes ! ” she replied. “No one can be good enough 
to go straight to heaven. There must be some little stop on 
the way in which to be sorry for all the bad things one has 
done.” 

“ ’Tis the same idea as ours,” said Giildmar. “We have 
two places of punishment in the Norse faith ; one, Nijie- 
heim, which is a temporary thing like the Catholic purga- 
tory ; the other Nastrondy which is the counterpart of the 
Christian hell. Know 3^011 not the description of Nifle- 
heim in the Ed da ? — ’tis terrible enough to satisfy all 
tastes. ^Hela, or Death rules over the Nine Worlds of 
Nifleheim. Her hall is called Grief Famine is her table, 
and her only servant is Delay. Her gate is a precipice, her 
porch Faintness, her bed Leanness, — Cursing and Howling 
are her tent. Her glance is dreadful and terrifying, — and 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


165 


her lips a,re blue witli the venom of Hatred.’ These words,’’ 
he added, “ sound finer in Norwegian, but I have given the 
meaning fairl3^” 

“ Ma certes I ” said Macfarlane chuckling. “ I’ll tell my 
aunt in Glasgie aboot it. This Nifleheim wad suit her 
pairfectlj’-, — she wad send a’ lier relations there wi’ tourist 
tickets, not available for the return journey ! ” 

“ It seems to me,” observed Errington, “ that the Nine 
Worlds of Nifleheim have a resemblance to the different 
circles of Dante’s Purgatory.” 

“ Exactlj^ so,” said Lorimer. All religions seem to me 
to be more or less the same, — the question I can never set- 
tle is, — which is the right one ? ” 

“ Would you follow it if you knew ? ” asked Thelma, with 
a slight smile. Lorimer laughed. 

“ Well, upon my life, I don’t know 1 ” he answered 
frankly, “ I never was a praying sort of fellow, — I don’t 
seem to grasp the idea of it somehow. But there’s one 
thing I’m certain of, — I can’t endure a bird without song, 
— a flower without scent, or a woman without religion — she 
seems to me no woman at all.” 

“ But are there any such women ? ” inquired the' girl 
surprised. 

“ Yes, there are undoubtedly ! Free-thinking, stump- 
orator, have-your-rights sort of creatures. You don’t know 
an3^thing about them. Miss Giildmar — be thankful I Now, 
Phil, how long is this vessel of 3^ours going to linger here?” 

Thus reminded, Errington called to the pilot, and in a 
few minutes the Eulalie resumed her usual speed, and bore 
swiftl3^ on towards Sorde. This island, dreary and dark in 
the distance, grew somewhat more inviting in aspect on a 
nearer approach. Now and then a shaft of sunlight fell on 
some glittering point of felspar or green patch of verdure, 
— and Yaldemar Svensen stated that he knew of a sandy 
creek where, if the party chose, the3^ could land and see a 
small cave of exquisite beauty, literally hung all over with 
stalactites. 

“ I never heard of this cave,” said Giildmar, fixing a keen 
eye on the pilot. “ Art thou a traveller’s guide to all such 
places in Norway ? ” 

Somewhat to Errington’s surprise, Svensen changed color 
and appeared confused ; moreover, he removed his red cap 
altogether when he answered the bonde, to whom he spoke 
defereutiall3" in rapid Norwegian. The old man laughed as 


166 


THELMA. 


he listened, and seemed satisfied ; then, turning away, he 
linked his arm through Philip’s, and said, 

“ You must pardon him, my lad, that he spoke in your 
presence a tongue unfamiliar to you. No offense was 
meant. He is of my creed, but fears to make it known, lest 
he should lose all emplo3nnent — which is likelj^ enough, 
seeing that so many of the people are fanatics. Moreover, 
he is bound to me by an oath,— which in olden days would 
have made him my serf, — ^but which leaves him free enough 
just now, — with one exception.” 

“ And that exception ? ” asked Errington with some in- 
terest . 

“ Is, that should I ever demand a certain service at his 
hands, he dare not refuse it. Odd, isn’t it ? or so it seems 
to 3^ou,” and Giildmar pressed the 3'oung man’s arm lightly 
and kindly; “but our Norse oaths, are taken with great 
solemnity, and are as binding as the obligation of death it- 
self. However, I liav§ not commanded Yaldemar’s obe- 
dience 3^et, nor do I think I am likel}^ to do so for some 
time. He is a fine, faithful fellow, — though too much given 
to dreams.” 

A ga3" chorus of laughter here broke from the little group 
seated on deck, of which Thelma was the centre, — and 
Giildmar stopped in his walk, with an attentive smile on 
his open, ruddy countenance. 

“ ’Tis good for the heart to hear the merriment of young 
folks,” he said. “ Think you not m^^ girl’s laugh is like 
the ripple of a lark’s song ? just so clear and joyous ? ” 

“ Her voice is music itself I ” declared Philip quickl}^ and 
warml3^ “ There is nothing she sa3"s, or does, or looks, — 
that is not absolutel3" beautiful I ” 

Then, suddenly aware of his precipitation, he stopped 
abruptl3^ His face flushed as Giildmar regarded him 
fixedly, with a musing and doubtful air. But whatever the 
old man thought, he said nothing. He merely held the 
young baronet’s arm a little closer, and together they 
joined the others, — though it was noticeable that during 
the rest of the da3’^ the bonds was rather abstracted and 
serious, — and that eA’^ery now and then his e3'^es rested on 
his daughter’s face with an expression of tender yearning 
and melancholy. 

It was about two hours after luncheon that the Eulalie 
approached the creek spoken of by the pilot, and they were 
all fascinated by the loveliness as well as b3^ the fierce 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 


167 


grandeur of the scene. The rocks on that portion of Sorde 
appeared to have split violently asunder to admit some 
great in-rushing passage of the sea, and were piled up in 
toppling terraces to the height of more than two thousand 
feet above the level of the water. Beneath these wild and 
craggy fortresses of nature a shining stretch of beach had 
formed itself, on which the fine white sand, mixed with 
crushed felspar, sparkled like powdered silver. On the left- 
hand side of this beach could be distinctly seen the round 
opening of the cavern to which V aldemar Svensen directed 
their attention. They decided to visit it — ^the yacht was 
brought to a standstill, and the long-boat lowered. They 
took no sailors with them, Errington and his companions 
ro-wing four oars, while Thelma and her father occupied the 
stern. A landing was easily effected, and they walked to- 
ward the cavern, treading on thousands of beautiful little 
shells which strewed the sand beneath their feet. There 
was a deep stillness everywhere — the island was so desolate 
that it seemed as though the very sea-birds refused to 
make their homes in the black clefts of such steep and bar- 
ren rocks. 

At the entrance of the little cave Guldmar looked back 
to the sea. 

“ There’s a storm coming ! ” he announced. “ Those 
clouds we saw this morning have sailed thither almost as 
quickly as ourselves ! ” 

The sky had indeed grown darker, and little wrinkling 
waves disturbed the surface of the water. But the sun as 
yet retained his sovereignty, and there was no wind. By 
the pilot’s advice, Errington and his friends had provided 
themselves each with a pine torch, in order to light up the 
cavern as soon as they found themselves within it. The 
smoky crimson flare illuminated what seemed at a first 
glance to be a miniature fairy palace studded thickly with 
clusters of diamonds. Long pointed stalactites hung from 
the roof at almost mathematically even distances from one 
another, — the walls glistened with varying shades of pink 
and green and violet, — and in the very midst of the cave 
..was a still pool of water in which all the fantastic forms 
and hues of the place mirrored themselves in miniature. 
In one corner the stalactites had clustered into the shape of 
a large chair overhung by a canopy, and Duprez perceiving 
it, exclaimed — 


168 


THELMA. 


VoildJ A queen’s throne I Come, Mademoiselle Giild 
mar, you must sit in it 1 ” 

“ But I am not a queen,” laughed Thelma. ‘‘ A throne is 
for a king, also— will not Sir Philip sit there ? ” 

“ There’s a compliment for you, Phil I ” cried Lorimer, 
waving his torch enthusiastically. “ Let us awaken the 
echoes with the shout of ‘ Long live the King 1 ’ ” 

But Errington approached Thelma, and taking her hand 
in his, said gently — 

“ Come I let me see you throned in state. Queen Thelma 1 
To please me, — come I ” 

She looked up — the flame of the bright torch he carried 
illumined his face, on which love had written what she could 
not fail to read, — but she trembled as with cold, and there 
was a kind of appealing wonder in her troubled eyes. He 
drew closer, and pressed her hand more tightly ; again he 
whispered, “ Come, Queen Thelma I ” As in a dream, she 
allowed him to lead her to the stalactite chair, and when 
she was seated therein, she endeavored to control the rapid 
beating of her heart, and to smile unconcernedly on the lit- 
tle group that surrounded her with shouts of mingled mirth 
and admiration. 

“ Ye just look fine! ” said Macfarlane with undisguised 
delight. “ Ye’d mak’ a grand picture, wouldn’t she. Erring- 
ton ? ” 

Philip gazed at her, but said nothing — his heart was too 
full. Sitting there among the glittering, intertwisted, and 
suspended rocks, — with the blaze from the torches flashing 
on her winsome face and luxuriant hair, — with that half- 
troubled, half-happy look in her eyes, and an uncertain 
shadowy smile quivering on her sweet lips, the girl looked 
almost dangerously lovely, — Helen of Troy could scarce 
have fired more passionate emotion among the old-world 
heroes than she unconsciousl}^ excited at that moment in 
the minds of all who beheld her. Duprez for once under- 
stood what it was to reverence a woman’s beauty, and de- 
cided that the flippant language of compliment was out of 
place — he therefore said nothing, and Lorimer, too, was si- 
lent, battling bravely against wild desires that were now, 
in his opinion, nothing but disloyalty to his friend. Old 
Giildmar’s hearty voice aroused and startled them all. 

“ Now Thelma, child I If thou art a queen, give orders 
to these lads to be moving ! ’Tis a damp place to hold a 
court in, and thy throne must needs be a cold one. Let us 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


169 


out to the blessed sunshine again — maybe we can climb one 
of yon wild rocks and get a view worth seeing.” 

“ All right, sir ! ” said Lorimer, chivalrously resolving 
that now Errington should have a chance. “ Come on, 
Mac ! AllonSy marchons, — Pierre I Mr. Giildmar exacts 
our obedience 1 Phil, you take care of the queen I ” 

And skillfully pushing on Duprez and Macfarlane before 
him, he followed Giildmar, who preceded them all, — thus 
leaving his friend in a momentary comparative solitude 
with Thelma. The girl was a little startled as she saw 
them thus taking their departure, and sprang up from her 
stalactite throne in haste. Sir Philip had laid aside his 
torch in order to assist her with both hands to descend the 
sloping rocks ; but her embarrassment at being left almost 
alone with him made her nervous and uncertain of foot, — 
she was hurried and agitated and anxious to overtake the 
others, and in trying to walk quickly she slipped and nearly 
fell. In one second she w^as caught in his arms and clasped 
passionate!}" to his heart. 

‘‘ Thelma I Thelma ! ” he whispered, “ I love you, my 
darling — I love you I ” 

She trembled in his strong embrace, and strove to release 
herself, but he pressed her more closely to him, scarcely 
knowing that he did so, but feeling that he held the world, 
life, time, happiness, and salvation in this one fair creature. 
His brain was in a wild whirl — the glitter of the stalactite 
cave turned to a gyrating wheel of jewel-work, there was 
nothing any more — no universe, no existence — nothing but 
love, love, love, beating strong hammer-strokes through 
every fibre of his frame. He glanced up, and saw that the 
slowly retreating forms of his friends had nearly reached 
the outer opening of the cavern. Once there, they would 
look back and 

Quick, Thelma I ” and his warm breath touched her 
cheek. “ My darling I my love ! if you are not angry, — 
kiss me! I shall understand.” 

She hesitated. To Philip that instant of hesitation 
seemed a cycle of slow revolving years. Timidly she lifted 
her head. She was very pale, and her breath came and 
went quickly. He gazed at her in speechless suspense, — 
and saw as in a vision the pure radiance of her face and 
star-like eyes shining more and more closely upon him. 
Then came a touch, — soft and sweet as a roseleaf pressed 
against his lips, — and for one mad moment he remembered 


TBELMA. 


no 

nothing, — he was caught up like Homer’s Paris in a cloud 
of gold, and knew not which was earth or heaven. 

“You love me, Thelma?” he murmured in a sort of 
wondering rapture. “ I cannot believe it, sweet 1 Tell me 
— you love me ? ” 

She looked up. A new, unspeakable glory flushed her 
face, and her eyes glowed with the mute eloquence of awak- 
ening passion. 

“ Love you ? ” she said in a voice so low and sweet that 
it might have been the whisper of a passing fairy. “ Ah, 
yes 1 more than my life ! ” 


CHAPTER XIY. 


(t 


Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, sweet eyes, sweet mouth ; 
Each singly wooed and won ! ” 

Dante Rossetti. 


“ Hillo, ho I ” shouted Gtildmar vociferously, peering 
back into the shadows of the cavern from whence the 
flgures of his daughter and Errington were seen presently 
emerging. “Why, what kept you so long, my lad ? We 
thought you were close behind us. Where’s your torch ? ” 

“ It went out,” replied Philip promptly, as he assisted 
Thelma with grave and ceremonious politeness to cross 
over some rough stones at the entrance, “ and we had some 
trouble to find our way.” 

“Ye might hae called to us i’ the way o’ friendship,” ob- 
served Macfarlane somewhat suspiciously, “ and we wad 
hae lighted ye through.” 

“ Oh, it was no matter ! ” said Thelma, with a charming 
smile. “ Sir Philip seemed well to know the way, and it 
was not so very dark I ” 

Lorimer glanced at her and read plainly all that was 
written in her happy face. His heart sank a little ; but, 
noticing that the old bonde was studying his daughter with 
a slight air of vexation and surprise, he loyally determined 
to divert the general attention from her bright blushes and 
too brilliantly sparkling eyes. 

“Weill . . . here you both are, at any rate,” he said 
lightly, “ and I should strongly advise that we attempt no 
more exploration of the island of Sorbe to-day. Look at 
the sky ; and just now there was a clap of thunder.” 

“ Thunder ? ” exclaimed Errington. “ I never heard it I ” 


TSE LAl^D OE THE MIDNIGHT StlH. 


171 


“ I dare say not I ’’ said Lorimer, with a quiet smile. 
“ Still we heard it pretty distinctly, and I think we’d better 
make for the yacht.” 

“ All right I ” and Sir Philip sprang gaily into the long- 
boat to arrange the cushions in the stern for Thelma. Never 
had he looked handsomer or more high-spirited, and his 
elation was noticed by all his companions. 

“ Something joyous has happened to our Phil-eep,” said 
Duprez in a half-whisper. “ He is in the air 1 ” 

“ And something in the ither way has happened vera sud- 
denly to Mr. Giildmar,” returned Macfarlane. “ Th’ auld 
man is in the dumps.” 

The bonders face in truth looked sad and somewhat stern. 
He scarcely spoke at all as he took his place in the boat 
beside his daughter, — once he raised her little hand, looked 
at t, and kissed it fondly. 

They were all soon on their way back to the Eulalie^ 
over a sea that had grown rough and white-crested during 
their visit to t^e stalactite cave. Clouds had gathered 
thickly over the sky, and though a few Shafts of sunlight 
still forced a passage through them, the threatening dark- 
ness spread with steady persistency, especially to the 
northern side of the horizon, where Storm hovered in the 
shape of a black wing edged with coppery crimson. As 
they reached the yacht a silver glare of lightning sprang 
forth from beneath this sable pinion, and a few large 
drops of rain began to fall. Errington hurried Thelma on 
deck and down into the saloon. His friends, with Giildmar, 
followed, — and the vessel was soon plunging through weaves 
of no small height on her way back to the AltenQord. A 
loud peal of thunder like a salvo of artillery accompanied 
their departure from Sorde, and Thelma shivered a little as 
she heard it. 

“ You are nervous. Mademoiselle Giildmar ? ” asked Du- 
prez, noticing her tremor. 

“ Oh no,” she answered brightly. “ Nervous? That is 
to be afraid, — I am not afraid of a storm, but I do not like 
it. It is a cruel, fierce thing ; and I should have wished 
to-day to be all sunshine — all gladness I ” She paused, and 
her eyes grew soft and humid. 

“ Then you have been happy to-day ? ” said Lorimer in a 
low and very gentle voice. 

She smiled up at him from the depths of the velvet 
lounge in which Errington had placed her. 


m 


THELMA, 


“ Happy ? I do not think I have ever been so happy be» 
fore I ” She paused, and a bright blush crimsoned her 
cheeks,* then, seeing the piano open, she said suddenly, 
“ Shall I sing to you ? or perhaps you are all tired, and 
would rather rest ? ” 

“ Music is rest,” said Lorimer rather dreamily, watching 
her as she rose from her seat, — a tall, supple, lithe figure, 
— and moved towards the instrument. “ And your voice. 
Miss Guldmar, would soothe the most weary soul that ever 
dwelt in clay.” 

She glanced round at him, surprised at his sad tone. 

“ Ah, you are very, very tired, Mr. Lorimer, I am sure ! 
I will sing you a Norse cradle-song to make you go to 
sleep. You will not understand the words though — will 
that matter ? ” 

“ Not in the least I ” answered Lorimer, with a smile. 
“ The London girls sing in German, Italian, Spanish, and 
English. Nobody knows what they are saying : they 
scarcely know themselves — but it’s all right, and quite 
fashionable.” 

Thelma laughed gaily. ‘‘ How funny I ” she exclaimed. 
“ It is to amuse people, I suppose I Well, — now listen.” 
And, playing a soft prelude, her rich contralto rippled forth 
in a tender, passionate, melancholy melody, — so sweet and 
heart-penetrating that the practical Macfarlane sat as one 
in a dream, — Duprez forgot to finish making the cigarette 
he was daintily manipulating between his fingers, and 
Lorimer had much ado to keep tears from his e3’^es. From 
one song she glided to another and 3^et another ; her soul 
seemed possessed by the very spirit of music. Meanwhile 
Errington, in obedience to an imperative sign from old 
Giildmar, left the saloon with him, — once outside the door, 
the bonds said in a somewhat agitated voice — 

“ I desire to speak to you. Sir Philip, alone and undis- 
turbed, if such a thing be possible.” 

“ By all means ! ” answered Philip. “ Come to my ‘ den ’ 
on deck. We shall be quite solitar3^ there.” 

He led the way, and Olaf Giildmar followed him in 
silence. 

It was raining fiercely, and the waves, green towers of 
strength, broke every now and then over the sides of the 
yacht with a hissing shower of salt white spray. The 
thunder rolled along the sky in angry reverberating echoes, 
— frequent flashes of lightning leaped out like swords 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


173 


drawn from dark scabbards, — yet towards the south the 
sky was clearing, and arrowy beams of pale gold fell from 
the hidden sun, with a soothing and soft lustre on the breast 
of the troubled water. 

Giildmar looked about him, and heaved a deep sigh of re- 
freshment. His eyes rested lovingly on the tumbling bil- 
lows, — he bared his white head to the wind and ram. 

“ This is the life, the blood, the heart of a man ! ” he 
said, while a sort of fierce delight shone in his keen eyes. 
‘‘ To battle with the tempest, — to laugh at the wrath of 
waters, — to set one’s face against the w'ild wind, — to sport 
with the elements as though they were children or serfs, — 
this is the joy of manhood I A joy,” he added slowly, 
“ that few so-called men of to-day can ever feel.” 

Errington smiled gravely. “ Perhaps you are right, sir,” 
he said ; ‘‘ but perhaps, at the same time, you forget that 
life has grown very bitter to all of us during the last hun- 
dred years or so. Maybe the world is getting old and used 
up, maybe the fault is in ourselves, — ^but it is certain that 
none of us nowadays are particularly happy, except at rare 
intervals when ” 

At that moment, in a lull of the storm, Thelma’s voice 
pealed upwards from the saloon. She was singing a French 
song, and the refrain rang out clearly — 

“ Ah ! le doux son d’un baiser tendre ! ” 

Errington paused abruptly in his speech, and turning 
towards a little closed and covered place on deck which 
was half cabin, half smoking-room, and which he kept as 
his own private sanctum, he unlocked it, saying — 

“ Will you come in here, sir? It’s not very spacious, 
but I think it’s just the place for a chat, — especially a 
private one.” 

Giildmar entered, but did not sit down, — Errington shut 
the door against the rain and beating spray and also re- 
mained standing. After a pause, during which the bonde 
seemed struggling with some inward emotion, he said reso- 
lutely — 

“ Sir Philip, you are a young man, and I am an old one. 
I would not willingly offend you — for I like you — yes 1 ” 
And the old man looked up frankly : “ I like you enough 
to respect you — which is more than I can say to many men 
I have known 1 But I have a weight on my heart that 
must be lifted. You and my child have been much to- 


174 


THELMA, 


get her for many days, — and I was an old fool not to have 
foreseen the influence your companionship might have upon 
her. I may be mistaken in the idea that has taken hold of 
me — some wild words let fall by the poor boy Sigurd this 
morning, when he entreated my pardon for his misconduct 
of yesterday, have perhaps misled my judgment, — but — 

by the gods I I cannot put it into suitable words I I ” 

You think I love your daughter?” said Sir Philip 
quietly. “You are not mistaken. Sir I I love her with my 
whole heart and soul I I want you to give her to me as my 
wife.” 

A change passed over the old farmer’s face. He grew 
deathly pale, and put out one hand feebly as though to seek 
some support. Errington caught it in his own and pressed 
it hard. 

“ Surely you are not surprised. Sir ? ” he added with 
eagerness. “ How can I help loving her I She is the best 
and loveliest girl I have ever seen 1 Believe me, — I would 
make her happy ! ” 

“ And have you thought, young man,” returned Guldmar 
slowly, “ that you would make me desolate ? — or, thinking 
it, have you cared ? ” 

There was an infinite pathos in his voice, and Errington 
was touched and silent. He found no answer to this re- 
proach. Guldmar sat down, leaning his head on his hand. 

“ Let me think a little,” he said. “ My mind is confused 
a bit. I was not prepared for ” 

He paused and seemed lost in sorrowful meditation. By- 
and-by he looked up, and meeting Errington’s anxious 
gaze, he broke into a short laugh. 

“ Don’t mind me, my lad ! ” he said sturdily. “ ’Tis a 
blow, you see 1 I had not thought so far as this. I’ll tell 
you the plain truth, and you must forgive me for wronging 
you. I know what young blood is, all the world over. A 
fair face fires it— and impulse makes it gallop beyond con- 
trol. ’Twas so with me when I was your age, — though no 
woman, I hope, was ever the worse for my harmless love- 
making. But Thelma is diflEerent from most women, — she 
has a strange nature,— moreover, she has a heart and a 
memory,— if she once learns the meaning of love, she will 
never unlearn the lesson. Now, I thought, that like most 
young men of your type, you might, without meaning any 
actual evil, trifle with her — play with her feelings ” 

“ I understand, Sir,” said Philip coolly, without display- 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 176 

ing any offense. To put it plainly, in spite of your liking 
for me, you thought me a snob.” 

This time the old man laughed heartily and unforcedly. 

“ Dear, dear I ” he exclaimed. “ You are what is termed 
in your own land, a peppery customer I Never mind — I 
like it. Why, my lad, the men of to-day think it fair sport 
to trifle with a pretty woman now and then ” 

“Pardon I ” interrupted Philip curtly. “ I must defend 
my sex. We may occasionally trifle with those women who 
show us that they wish to be trifled with — but never with 
those who, like your daughter, win every man’s respect and 
reverence.” 

Giildmar rose and grasped his hand fervently. 

“ By all the gods, I believe you are a true gentleman I ” 
he said. “ I ask your pardon if I have offended you by so 
much as a thought. But now”-^and his face grew very 
serious — “ we must talk this matter over. I will not speak 
of the suddenness of your love for my child, because I 
know, from my own past experience, that love is a rapid 
impulse — a flame ignited in a moment. Yes, I know that 
well ! ” He paused, and his voice trembled a little, but he 
soon steadied it and went on — “ I think, however, my lad, 
that you have been a little hasty, — for instance, have you 
thought what your English friends and relatives will say to 
your marrying a farmer’s daughter who, — though she has 
the blood of kings in her veins, — is, nevertheless, as this 
present world would judge, beneath you in social standing ? 
I say, have you thought of this ? ” 

Philip smiled proudly. “ Certainly, sir, I have not 
thought of any such trifle as the opinion of society, — if that 
is what you mean. I have no relatives to please or dis- 
please — no friends in the truest sense of the world except 
Lorimer., I have a long list of acquaintances undoubtedly, 
. — infinite bores, most of them, — and whether they approve 
or disapprove of my actions is to me a matter of profound 
indifference.” 

“ See you ! ” said the bonde firmly and earnestly. “ It 
would be an ill day for me if I gave my little one to a 
husband who might — mind I I only say might ., — in the course 
of years, regret having married her.” 

“ Regret I ” cried Philip excitedly, then quieting down, 
he said gently. “ My good friend, I do not think you un- 
derstand me. You talk as if Thelma were beneath me. 
Good God I It is / who am infinitely beneath her ! I am 


176 


THELMA. 


utterly unworthy of her in every way, I assure you — and I 
tell you so frankly. I have led a useless life, and a more or 
less selfish one. I have principally sought to amuse and in- 
terest myself all through it. I’ve had my vices to, and have 
them still. Beside Thelma’s innocent white soul, mine looks 
villainous 1 But I can honestly say I never knew what 
love Was till I saw her, — and now — well I I would give my 
life away gladly to save her from even a small sorrow.” 

“ I believe you — I thoroughly believe you I ” said Giild- 
mar. “ I see you love the child. The gods forbid that I 
should stand in the way of her happiness I I am get- 
ting old, and ’twas often a sore point with me to know 
what would become of my darling when I was gone, — for 
she is fair to look upon, and there are many human wolves 
ready to devour such lambs. Still, my lad, you must learn 
all. Do you know what is said of me in Bosekop ? ” 

Errington smiled and nodded in the affirmative. 

You do ? ” exclaimed the old man, somewhat surprised. 

You know they say I killed my wife — my wife I thecreat* 

. ure before whom my soul knelt in worship night and day 
« — whose bright head was the sunlight of life ! Let me tell 
you of her. Sir Philip — ’tis a simple story. She was the 
child of my dearest friend, and many years younger than 
myself. This friend of mine, Erik Erlandsen, was the cap- 
tain of a stout Norwegian barque, running constantly be- 
tween these wild waters and the coast of France. He fell 
in love with, and married a blue-eyed beauty from the Sogne 
Fjord, he carried her secretly away from her parents, who 
would not consent to the marriage. She was a timid creat- 
ure, in spite of her queenly ways, and, for fear of her par- 
ents, she would never land again on the shores of Norway. 
She grew to love France, — and Erik often left her there in 
some safe shelter when he was was bound on some extra 
long and stormy passage. She took to the Catholic creed, 
too, in France, and learned to speak the French tongue, so 
Erik said, as though it were her own. At the time of the 
expected birth of her child, her husband had taken her far 
inland to Arles, and there business compelled him to leave her 
for some days. When he returned she was dead I — laid 
out for burial, with fiowers and tapers round her. He fell 
prone on her body insensible, — and not for many hours did 
the people of the place dare to tell him that he was the 
father of a living child— a girl, with the great blue eyes 
and white skin of her mother. He would scarce look at it 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 177 

— but at last, when roused a bit, he carried the little thing 
in his arms to the great Convent at Arles, and, giving the 
nuns money, he bade them take it and bring it up as they 
would, only giving it the name of Thelma. Then poor Er- 
landsen came home — he sought me out : — he said, ‘ Olaf, I 
feel that I am going on my last voyage. Promise you will 
see to my child — guard her, if you can, from an evil fate I 
For me there is no future!’ I promised, and strove to 
cheer him — but he spoke truly — his ship went down in a 
storm on the Bay of Biscay, and all on board were lost. 
Then it was that I commenced my journeyings to and fro,' 
to see the little maiden that was growing up in the Convent 
at Arles. I watched her for sixteen years — and when she 
reached her seventeenth birthday, I married her and brought 
her to Norway.” 

“ And she was Thelma’s mother ? ” said Errington with 
interest. 

“ She was Thelma’s mother,” returned the bonde^ “ and 
she was more beautiful than even Thelma is now. Her ed- 
ucation had been almost entirely French, but, as a child, 
she had learnt that I generally spoke English, and as there 
happened to be an English nun in the Convent, she studied 
that language and mastered it for the love of me — yes I ” he 
repeated with musing tenderness, “ all for the love of me, 
— for she loved me, Sir Philip — ay ! as passionatel 3 ^ as I 
loved her, and that is saying a great deal I We lived a sol- 
itary happy life, — but we did not mix with our neighbors 
— our oreeds were different, — our ways apart from theirs. 
We had some time of perfect happiness together. Three 
years passed before our child was born, and then ” — the 
honde paused awhile, and again continued, — “ then my wife’s 
health grew frail and uncertain. She liked to be in the 
fresh air, and was fond of wandering about the hills with 
her little one in her arms. One day — shall I ever forget it 1 
when Thelma was about two and a half years old, I missed 
them both, and went out to search for them, fearing 
my wife had lost her way, and knowing that our child could 
not toddle far without fatigue. I found them ” — the honde 
shuddered — but how ? My wife had slipped and fallen 
through a chasm in the rocks, — high enough, indeed, to 
have killed her, — she was alive, but injured for life. She 
lay there white and motionless — little Thelma meanwhile 
sat smilingly on the edge of the rock, assuring me that her 
mother had gone to sleep ‘ down there,' Well 1 ” and Guld- 

n 


178 


THELMA. 


mar brushed the back of his haAd across his eyes, to make 
a long story short, I carried my darling home in my arms 
a wreck — she lingered for ten years of patient suffering, ten 
long years ! She could only move about on crutches, — the 
beauty of her figure was gone — but the beauty of her face 
grew more perfect every day ! Never again was she seen 
on the hills, — and so to the silly folks of Bosekop she 
seemed to have disappeared. Indeed, I kept her very ex- 
istence a secret, — I could not endure that others should 
hear of the destruction of all that marvellous grace and 
queenly loveliness I She lived long enough to see her 
daughter blossom into girlhood, — then, — she died. I could 
not bear to have her laid in the damp, wormy earth — you 
know in our creed earth-burial is not practiced, — so I laid 
her tenderly away in a king’s tomb of antiquity, — a tomb 
known only to myself and one who assisted me to lay her 
in her last resting-place. There she sleeps right royally, 
— and now is your mind relieved, my lad ? For the reports 
of the Bosekop folk must certainly have awakened some 
suspicions in your mind ? ” 

“ Your story has interested me deeply, sir,” said Erring- 
ton ; “ but I assure you I never had any suspicions of you 
at all. I always disregard gossip — it is generally scandal- 
ous, and seldom true. Besides, I took your face on trust, 
as you took mine.” 

“ Then,” declared Gtildmar, with a smile, “ I have noth- 
ing more to say, — except ” — and he stretched out both 
hands — “ may the great gods prosper your wooing ! You 
offer a fairer fate to Thelma than I had dreamed of for her 
— but I know not what the child herself may say ” 

Philip interrupted him. His eyes flashed, and he smiled. 

“ She loves me I ” he said simply. Giildmar looked at 
him, laughed a little, and sighed. 

“ She loves thee ? ” he said, relapsing into the thee and 
thou he was wont to use with his daughter. “ Thou hast 
lost no time, my lad ? When didst thou find that out ? ” 

“ To-day I ” returned Philip, with that same triumphant 
smile playing about his lips. “ She told me so — yet even 
now I cannot believe it I ” 

“ Ah, well, thou mayest believe it truly,” said Giildmar, 
“ for Thelma says nothing that she does not mean ! The 
ctiild has never stooped to even the smallest falsehood.” 

Errington seemed lost in a happy dream. Suddenly he 
roused himself and took Giildmar by the arm. 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN, 


179 


Come,” he said, “ let us go to her ! She will wonder 
why we are so long absent. See 1 the storm has cleared — 
the sun is shining. It is understood ? You will give her to 
me ? ” 

“ Foolish lad I ” said Giildmar gently. “ What have I to 
do with it ? She has given herself to thee I Love has over- 
whelmed both of your hearts, and before the strong sweep 
of such an ocean what can an old man’s life avail ? Nothing 
— less than nothing ! Besides, I should be happy — if I have 
regrets, — if I feel the tooth of sorrow biting at my heart — 
’tis naught but selfishness. ’Tis my own dread of parting 
with her ” — his voice trembled, and his fine face quivered 
with suppressed emotion. 

Errington pressed his arm. “ Our house shall be yours, 
sir ! ” he said eagerly. “ Why not leave this place and come 
with us ? ” 

Giildmar shook his head. “ Leave Norway I ” he said — ■ 
“ leave the land of my fathers — turn my back on these 
mountains and Qords and glaziers? Never I No, no, my lad, 
you’re kind-hearted and generous as becomes you, and I 
thank you from my heart. But ’twould be impossible I I 
should be like a caged eagle, breaking my wings against the 
bars of English conventionalities. Besides, young birds 
must make their nest without interference from the old ones.” 

He stepped out on deck as Errington opened the little 
cabin door, and his features kindled with enthusiasm as he 
looked on the the stretch of dark mountain scenery around 
him, illumined by the brilliant beams of the sun that shone 
out now in full splendor, as though in glorious defiance of 
the retreating storm, which had gradually rolled away in 
clouds that were tumbling one over the other at the ex- 
treme edge of the northern horizon, like vanquished armies 
taking to hasty flight. 

“ Could I stand the orderly tameness of your green En- 
gland, think you, after this ?.” he exclaimed, with a compre- 
hensive gesture of his hand. “ No, no I When death comes 
— and ’twill not be long coming — let it find me with my 
face turned to the mountains, and nothing but their kingly 
crests between me and the blessed sky I Come, my lad I ” 
and he relapsed into his ordinary tone. “ If thou art like 
me when I was thy age, every minute passed away from 
thy love seems an eternity ! Let us go to her — we had best 
wait till the decks are dry before we assemble up here 
again.” 


180 


THELMA, 


They descended at once into the saloon, where they found 
Thelma being initiated into the mysteries of chess by Du- 
prez, while Macfarlane and Lorimer looked idly on. She 
glanced up from the board as her father and Errington en- 
tered, and smiled at them both with a slightly heightened 
color. 

“ This is such a wonderful game, father I ” she said. 
“ And I am so stupid, I cannot understand it ! So Mon- 
sieur Pierre is trying to make me remember the moves.” 

“ Nothing is easier I ” declared Duprez. “ I was showing 
you how the bishop goes, so — cross-ways,” and he illustra- 
ted his lesson. “ He is a dignitary of the Church, you per- 
ceive Bien ! it follows that he cannot go in a straight line, 
— if you observe them well, you will see that all the relig- 
ious gentlemen play at cross purposes. You are very quick. 
Mademoiselle Giildmar, — ^you haA^e perfectly comprehended 
the move of the castle, and the pretty j)lunge of the knight. 
Now, as I told you, the queen can do anything — all the 
pieces shiver in their shoes before her 1 ” 

“ Why ? ” she asked, feeling a little embarrassed, as Sir 
Philip came and sat beside her, looking at her with an un- 
doubtedly composed air of absolute proprietorship. 

“ Why? Enfin^ the reason is simple! ” answered Pierre. 
“ The queen is a woman, — everything must give way to 
her wish ! ” 

“ And the king ? ” she inquired. 

“ Ah ! Le pauver Roi I He can do very little — almost 
nothing ! He can only move one step at a time, and that 
with much labor and hesitation — he is the wooden image 
of Louis XYI. 1” 

“ Then,” said the girl quickly, “ the object of the game 
IS to protect a king who is not worth protecting ! ” 

Duprez laughed. “ Exactly I And thus, in this charm- 
ing game, you have the history of many nations ! Made- 
moiselle Giildmar has put the matter excellently I Chess 
is for those who intend to form republics. All the worry 
and calculation — all the moA^es of pawns, bishops, knights, 
castles, and queens, — all to shelter the throne which is not 
worth protecting ! Excellent 1 Mademoiselle, you are not 
in favor of monarchies I ” 

I do not know,” said Thelma ; “ I have never thought 
of such things. But kings should be great men, — wise and 
powerful, better and braver than all their subjects, should 
they not?” 


THE LAND OF IDE AIIDNIGHT SUN. 


181 


“ Undoubtedly I ” remarked Lorimer ; “ but, it’s a curious 
thing, they seldom are. Now, our queen, God bless her — ” 

“ Hear, hear ! ” interrupted Errington, laughing good- 
humoredly. “ I won’t have have a w'ord said against the 
dear old lady, Lorimer 1 Granted that she hates London, 
and sees no fun in being stared at by vulgar crowds, I 
think she’s quite right, — and I sympathize heartily with 
her liking for a cup of tea in peace and quiet with some old 
Scotch body who doesn’t care wLether she’s a queen or a 
washerwoman.” 

“ I think,” said Macfarlane slowly, “ that royalty has its 
duties, ye see, an’ though I canna say I object to Her 
Majesty’s homely way o’ behavin’, still there are a few 
matters that wad be the better for her pairsonal attention.” 

“ Oh bother I ” said Errington gaily. “ Look at that 
victim of the nation, the Prince of Wales ! The poor fel- 
low hasn’t a moment’s peace of his life, — what with laying 
foundation stones, opening museums, inspecting this and 
visiting that, he is like a costermonger’s donkey, that must 
gee-up or gee-wo as his master, the people bid. If he 
smiles at a woman, dt is instantly reported that he’s in love 
with her, — if he frankly says he considers her prett}^, there’s 
no end to the scandal. Poor royal wretch I I pity him 
from my heart I The unwashed, beer-drinking, gin-swilling 
classes, who clamor for shortened hours of labor, and want 
work to be expressly invented for their benefit, don’t suf- 
fer a bit more than Albert Edward, who is supposed to be 
rolling idly in the very lap of luxury, and who can hardly 
call his soul his own. Why, the man can’t eat a mutton- 
chop without there being a paragraph in the papers headed, 
‘ Diet of the Prince of Wales.’ His life is made an infinite 
bore to him, I’m positive I ” 

Guldmar looked thoughtful. “ I know little about kings 
or princes,” he said, “ but it seems to me, from what I do 
know, that they have but small power. They are mere 
puppets. In olden times they possessed supremacy, but 
now — ” 

I will tell you,” interrupted Dupr^z excitedly, “ who it 
is that rules the people in these times, — it is the Pen — 
Madame la Plume. A little black, sharp, scratching devil 
she is, — empress of all na-tions! No crown but a point, — 
no royal robe save ink 1 It is certain that as long as 
Madame la Plume gambols freely over her realms of paper, 
so long must kings and autocrats shake in their shoes and 


182 


THELMA, 


be uncertain of their thrones. Mon Dieu ! if 1 had but 
the gift of writing, I would conquer the world 1 ’’ 

“There are an immense number of people writing just 
now, Pierre,” remarked Lorimer, with a smile, “ yet they 
don’t do much in the conquering line.” 

“ Because they are afraid ! ” said Duprez. “ Because they 
have not the courage of their opinions ! Because they dare 
not tell the truth I ” 

“ Upon my life, I believe you are right I ” said Errington. 
“ If there were a man bold enough to declare truths and 
denounce lies, I should imagine it quite possible that he 
might conquer the world, — or, at any rate, make it afraid 
of him.” 

“ But is the world so full of lies ? ” asked Thelma tim- 
idly. 

Lorimer looked at her gravely. “ I fear so. Miss Giild- 
mar I 1 think it has a tolerable harvest of them every 
year, — a harvest, too, that never fails I But I say, Phil I 
Look at the sun shining ! Let us go up on deck, — we 
shall soon be getting back to the AltenQord.” 

They all rose, threw on their caps, and left the saloon 
with the exception of Errington, who lingered behind, 
watching his opportunity, and as Thelma followed her 
father he called her back softly — 

“ Thelma ! ” 

She hesitated, and then turned towards him, — her father 
saw her movement, smiled at her, and nodded kindly, as he 
passed through the saloon doors and disappeared. With a 
beating heart, she sprang quickly to her lover’s side, and 
as he caught her in his arms, she whispered — 

“ You have told him ? ” 

“ Your father ? Yes, my darling ! ” murmured Philip, 
as he kissed her sweet, upturned lips. “Be quite happy — 
he knows everything. Come, Thelma 1 tell me again you 
love me — I have not heard you say it properly yet I ” 

She smiled dreamily as she leaned against his breast and 
looked up into his eyes. 

“ I cannot say it properly ! ” she said. “ There is no 
language for my heart ! If I could tell you all I feel, you 
would think it foolish, I am sure, because it is all so wild 
and strange,” — she stopped, and her face grew pale,— 
“ oh I ” she murmured with a slight tremor ; “ it is ter- 
rible 1 ” 

“What is terrible, my sweet one?” asked Errington, 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


183 


drawing her more closely, and folding her more tightly in 
his arms. 

She sighed deeply. “ To have no more life of my own I ” 
she answered, while her low voice quivered with intense 
feeling. “ It has all gone — to you I And yours has come 
to me I — is it not strange and almost sad ? How your heart 
beats, poor boy I — I can hear it throb, throb — so fast I — 
here, where I am resting my head.” She looked up, and 
her little white hand caressed his cheek. “ Philip,” she 
said very softly, “what are j^ou thinking about ? Your 
eyes shine so brightly — do you know you have beautiful 
eyes ? ” 

“ Have I ? ” he murmured abstractedly, looking down on 
that ejcquisite, innocent, glowing face, and trembling with 
the force of the restrained passion that kindled through 
him. “ I don’t know about that ! — yours seem to me like 
two stars fallen from heaven I Oh, Thelma, my darling ! — 
God make me worthy of you.” 

He spoke with intense fervor, — kissing her with a ten- 
derness, in which there was something of reverence as well 
as fear. The whole soul of the man was startled and 
roused to inexpressible devotion, by the absolute simplicity 
and purity of her nature — the direct frankness with which 
she had said her life was his — his I — and in what way was 
he fitted to be the guardian and possessor of this white lily 
from the garden of God ? She was so utterly different to 
ill women as he had known them — as different as a bird of 
paradise to a common house-sparrow. Meanwhile, as these 
thoughts fiitted through his brain, she moved gently from 
his embrace and smiled proudly, yet sweetly. 

“ Worthy of me ? ” she said softly and wonderingly. “ It 
is I that will pray to be made worthy of you I You must 
not put it wrongly, Philip I ” 

He made no answer, but looked at her as she stood before 
him, majestic as a young empress in her straight, un- 
adorned white gown. 

“ Thelma ! ” he said suddenly, “ do you know how lovely 
you are ? ” 

“ Yes ! ” she answered simply ; “ I know it, because I am 
like my mother. But it is not anything to be beautiful, — 
unless one is loved, — and then it is different 1 I feel much 
more beautiful now, since you think me pleasant to look 
atl” 

Philip laughed and caught her hand. “ What a child 


184 


THELMA. 


you are!” he said. “Now let me see this little finger. 
And he loosened from his watch-chain a half-hoop ring of 
brilliants. “ This belonged to my mother, Thelma,” he 
continued gently, “ and since her death I have always car- 
ried it about with me. I resolved never to part with it, ex- 
cept to ” He paused and slipped it on the third finger 

of her left hand, where it sparkled bravely. 

She gazed at it in surprise. “ You part with it now ? ” 
she asked, with wonder in her accents. “ I do not under- 
stand I ” 

He kissed her. “No? I will explain again, Thelma! — 
and you shall not laugh at me as you did the very first 
time I saw you ! I resolved never to part with this ring, I 
say, except to — my promised wife. JVow do you under- 
stand? ” 

She blushed deeply, and her eyes dropped before his 
ardent gaze. 

“ I do thank you very much, Philip,” — she faltered 
timidly, — she was about to say something further when 
suddenly Lorimer entered the saloon. He glanced from 
Errington to Thelma, and from Thelma back again to Er- 
rington, — and smiled. So have certain brave soldiers been 
known to smile in face of a death-shot. He advanced with 
his usual languid step and nonchalant air, and removing 
his cap, bowed gravely and courteously. 

“ Let me be the first to offer my congratulations to the 
future Lady Errington 1 Phil, old man ! . . . I wish you 

joy I . 


CHAPTER XY. 

“ Why, sir, in the universal game of double-dealing, shall not the 
cleverest tricksters play each other false by haphazard, and so be- 
tray their closest secret^), to their own and their friends’ infinite 
amazement ? ” — Congeeve. 

When Olaf Giildmar and his daughter left the yacht that 
evening, Errington accompanied them, in order to have the 
satisfaction of escorting his beautiful betrothed as far as 
her own door. They were all three very silent — the bonde 
was pensive, Thelma shy, and Errington himself was too 
happy for speech. Arriving at the farmhouse, they saw 
Sigurd curled up under the porch, playing idly with the 
trailing rose-branches, but, on hearing their footsteps, he 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


185 


looked up, uttered a wild exclamation, and fled. Giildmar 
tapped his own forehead significantly. 

“ He grows worse and worse, the poor lad I ” he said 
somewhat sorrowfully. “ And yet there is a strange 
mingling of foresight and wit with his wild fancies. 
Wouldst thou believe it, Thelma, child,” and here he 
turned to his daughter and encircled her waist with his 
arm — “ he seemed to know how matters were with thee 
and Philip, when I was yet in the dark concerning them ! ” 

This was the first allusion her father had made to her 
engagement, and her head drooped with a sort of sweet 
shame. 

“ Nay, now, why hide thy face?” went on the old man 
cheerily. “ Didst thou think I would grudge my bird her 
summer-time ? Not 1 1 And little did I hope for thee, my 
darling, that thou wouldst find a shelter worthy of thee in 
this wild world ! ” He paused a moment, looking tenderly 
down upon her, as she nestled in mute affection against 
his breast, — then addressing himself to Errington, he went 
on — 

“We have a story in our Norse religion, my lad, of two 
lovers who declared their passion to each other, on one 
stormy night in the depth of winter. They were together 
in a desolate hut on the mountains, and around them lay 
unbroken tracts of frozen snow. They were descended from 
the gods, and therefore the gods protected them — and it 
happened that after they had sworn their troth, the doors 
of the snow-bound hut flew suddenly open, and lol the 
landscape had changed — the hills were gay with grass and 
flowers, — the sky was blue and brilliant, the birds sang, 
and everywhere was heard the ripple of waters let loose 
from their icy fetters, and gamboling down the rocks in 
the joyous sun. This was the work of the goddess Friga, — 
the first kiss exchanged by the lovers she watched over, 
banished Winter from the land, and Spring came instead. 
’Tis a pretty story, and true all the world over — true 
for all men and women of all creeds ! It must be an ice- 
bound heart indeed that will not warm to the touch of love 
— and mine, though aged, grows young again in the joy of 
my children.” He put his daughter gently from him to- 
wards Philip, saying with more gravity, “ Go to him, child ! 
— go — with thy old father’s blessing ! And take with thee 
the three best virtues of a wife, — truth, humility, and obe- 
dience. Good night, my son 1 ” and he wrung Errington’s 


186 


THELMA. 


hand with fervor. “ You’ll take longer to say good night 
to Thelma,” and he laughed, “ so I’ll go in and leave you 
to it ! ” 

And with a good-natured nod, he entered the house 
whistling a tune as he went, that they might not think he 
imagined himself lonely or neglected,— and the two lovers 
paced slowly up and down the garden-path together, ex- 
changing those first confidences which to outsiders seem so 
eminently foolish, but which to those immediately con- 
cerned are most wonderful, delightful, strange, and en- 
chanting beyond all description. Where, from a practical 
point of view, is the sense of such questions as these — 
“ When did you love me first ? ” “ What did you feel when 
1 said so-and-so ? ” “ Have you dreamt of me often ? ” 

Will you love me always, always, always ? ” and so on ad 
infinitum. “ Ridiculous rubbish I ” exclaims the would-be 
strong-minded, but secretly savage old maid, — and the self- 
ishly matter-of-fact, but privately fidgety and lonely old 
bachelor. Ah ! but there are those who could tell you that 
at one time or another of their lives this “ ridiculous rub- 
bish ” seemed far more important than the decline and fall 
of empires, — more necessary to existence than light and 
air, — more fraught with hope, fear, suspense, comfort, de- 
spair, and anxiety than anything that could be invented or 
imagined I Philip and Thelma, — man and woman in the 
full fiush of youth, health, beauty, and happiness, — had 
just entered their Paradise, — their fairy-garden, — and ever}^ 
little fiower and leaf on the way had special, sweet interest 
for them. Love’s indefinable glories, — Love’s proud possi- 
bilities, — Love's long ecstasies, — these, like so many spirit- 
figures, seemed to smile and beckon them on, on, on, 
through golden seas of sunlight, — through fiower-filled 
fields of drowsy entrancement, — through winding ways of 
rose-strewn and lily-scented leafage, — on, on, with eyes and 
hearts absorbed in one another, — unseeing any end to the 
dreamlike wonders that, like some heavenly picture-scroll, 
unrolled slowly and radiantly before them. And so they 
murmured those unwise, tender things which no wisdom in 
the world has ever surpassed, and when Philip at last said 
“ Good night ! ” with more reluctance than Romeo, and 
pressed his parting kiss on his love’s sweet, fresh mouth, — 
the riddle with which he had puzzled himself so often was 
resolved at last, — life was worth living, worth cherishing, 
worth ennobling. The reason of all things seemed clear to 


THE LAND OF TBE MIDNIGBT SUN. 


187 


him, — Love, and Love only, supported, controlled, and 
grandly completed the universe I He accepted this answer 
to all perplexities, — his heart expanded with a sense of 
large content — his soul was satisfied. 

Meanwhile, during his friend’s absence from the yacht, 
Lorimer took it upon himself to break the news to Duprez 
and Macfarlane. These latter young gentleman had had 
their suspicions already, but they were not quite prepared 
to hear them so soon confirmed. Lorimer told the matter 
in his own way. , 

“ I say, you fellows ! ” he remarked carelessly, as he sat 
smoking in their company on deck, “ you’d better look out ! 
If you stare at Miss Guldmar too much, you’ll have Phil 
down upon you I ” 

“ Ha, ha I ” exclaimed Duprez slyly, “ the dear Phil-eep 
is in love ? ” 

“ Something more than that,” said Lorimer, looking ab- 
sently at the cigarette he held between his fingers, — “ he’s 
an engaged man.” 

“ Engaged I ” cried Macfarlane excitedly. “ Ma certes ! 
He has the deevil’s own luck I He’s just secured for him- 
self the grandest woman in the warld ! ” 

“ Je le crois Men ! ” said Duprez gravely, nodding his 
head several times. “ Phil-eep is a wise boy ! He is the 
fortunate one ! I am not for marriage at all — no ! not for 
myself, — it is to tie one’s hands, to become a prisoner, — and 
that would not suit me ; but if T were inclined to captivity, 
I should like Mademoiselle Guldmar for my beautiful 
gaoler. And beautiful she is, mon Dieu ! . . . beyond all 
comparison ! ” 

Lorimer was silent, so was Macfarlane. After a pause 
Duprez spoke again. 

“ And do you know, cher Lorimer, when our Phil-eep 
will marry ? ” 

“ I haven’t the slightest idea,” returned Lorimer. “ I 
know he’s engaged, that's all.” 

Suddenly Macfarlane broke into a chuckling laugh. 

“ I say, Lorimer,” he said, with his deep-set, small grey 
eyes sparkling with mischief. “ ’Twould be grand fun to 
see auld Dyceworthy’s face when he hears o’t. By the 
Lord ! He’il fall to cursin’ an’ swearin’ like ma pious aunt 
in Glasgie, or that auld witch that cursed Miss Thelma 
yestreen I ” 


188 


THELMA. 


“ An eminently unpleasant old woman she was I ” said 
Lorimer musingly. “ I wonder what she meant by it ! ” 

“ She meant, mon cher^^^ said Duprez airily, “ that she 
knew herself to be ugly and venerable, while Mademoiselle 
was youthful and ravishing, — it is a sufficient reason to ex- 
cite profanity in the mind of a lady ! ” 

“ Here comes Errington ! ” said Macfarlane, pointing to 
the approaching boat that was coming swiftly back from 
the Huldmars’ pier. “ Lorimer, are we to congratulate 
him ? ” 

“ If you like ! ” returned Lorimer. “ I dare say he won’t 
object.” 

So that as soon as Sir Philip set foot on the yacht, his 
hands were cordially grasped, and his friends outvied each 
other in good wishes for his happiness. He thanked them 
simply and with a manly straightforwardness, entirely free 
from the usual affected embarrassment that some modern 
young men think it seemly to adopt under similar circum- 
stances. 

“ The fact is/’ he said frankly, “ I congratulate myself, — 
I’m more lucky than I deserve, I know 1 ” 

“ What a sensation she will make in London, Phil I ” said 
Lorimer suddenly. “I’ve just thought of it! Good 
Heavens! Lady Winsleigh will cry lor sheer spite and 
vexation ! ” 

Philip laughed. “ I hope not,” he said. “ I should think 
it would need immense force to draw a tear from her lady- 
ship’s cold bright e^^es.” 

“ She used to like you awfully, Phil I ” said Lorimer. 
“ You were a great favorite of hers.” 

“ All men are her favorites with the exception of one. — 
her husband ! ” observed Errington gaily. “ Come along, 
let’s have some champagne to celebrate the day ! We’ll 
propose toasts and drink healths — we’ve got a fair excuse 
for jollity this evening.” 

They all descended into the saloon, and had a merry time 
of it, singing songs and telling good stories, Lorimer being 
the gayest of the party, and it was long past midnight 
when they retired to their cabins, without even looking at 
the wonders of, perhaps, the most gorgeous sky that had 
yet shone on their travels — a sky of complete rose-color, 
varying from the deepest shade up to the palest, in which 
the sun glowed with a subdued radiance like an enormous 
burning rnby. 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


189 


Thelma saw it, standing under her house-porch, where 
her father had joined her, — Sigurd saw it, — he had come 
out from some thicket where he had been hiding, and he 
now sat, in a humble, crouching posture at Thelma’s feet. 
All three were silent, reverently watching the spreading 
splendor of the heavens. Once Guldmar addressed his 
daughter in a soft tone. 

“ Thou are happy, my bird ? ” 

She smiled — the expression of her face was almost divine 
in its rapture. 

“ Perfectly happy, my father 1 ” 

At the sound of her dulcet voice, Sigurd looked up. His 
large blue eyes were full of tears, he took her hand and 
held it in his meagre and wasted one. 

“ Mistress I ” he said suddenly, “ do you think I shall 
soon die ? ” 

She turned her pitying eyes down upon him, startled by 
the vibrating melancholy of his tone. 

“ Thou wilt die, Sigurd,” answered Guldmar gently, 
“ when the gods please, — not one second sooner or later. 
Art thou eager to see Valhalla? ” 

Sigurd nodded dreamily. “ They will understand me 
there I ” he murmured. “ And I shall grow straight and 
strong and brave I Mistress, if you meet me in Valhalla, 
you will love me ! ” 

She stroked his wild fair locks. ‘‘ I love you now, 
Sigurd,” she said tenderly. “ But perhaps we shall all love 
each other better in heaven.” 

“ Yes, yes I ” exclaimed Sigurd, patting her hand caress- 
ingly. When we are all dead, dead I When our bodies 
crumble away and turn to flowers and birds and butterflies, 
— and our souls come out like white and red flames, — yes I 
/ . . . then we shall love each other and talk of such strange, 
strange things I ” He paused and laughed wildly. Then 
his voice sank again into melancholy monotony — and he 
added : “ Mistress, you are killing poor Sigurd I ” 

Thelma’s face grew very earnest and anxious. “ Are 
you vexed with me, dear ? ” she asked soothingly. Tell 
me what it is that troubles you ? ” 

Sigurd met her eyes with a look of speechless despair and 
shook his head. 

“ I cannot tell you 1 ” he muttered. “ All my thoughts 
have gone to dro'^n themselves one by one in the cold sea ! 
My heart was buried yesterday, and I saw it sealed down 


190 


TEELMA. 


into its coffin. There is something of me left, — something 
that dances before me like a flame, — but it will not rest, it 
does not obey me. I call it, but it will not come I And 1 
am getting tired, mistress — very, very tired ! ” His voice 
broke, and a low sob escaped him, — he hid his face in the 
folds of her dress. Giildmar looked at the poor fellow com- 
passionately. 

“ The wits wander further and further away ! ” he said to 
his daughter in a low tone. “ ’Tis a mind like a broken rain- 
bow, split through by storm — ’twill soon vanish. Be patient 
with him, child, — it cannot be for long ! ” 

“ No, not for long I ” cried Sigurd, raising his head 
brightly. “ That is true — not for long I Mistress, will you 
come to-morrow with me and gather flowers? You used to 
love to wander with your poor boy in the flelds, — but you 
have forgotten, — and I cannot And any blossoms without 
vou ! They will not show themselves unless you come I 
Will you ? dear, beautiful mistress ! will you come ? ” 

She smiled, pleased to see him a little more cheerful. 

Yes, Sigurd,” she said ; “ I will come. We will go to- 
gether early to-morrow morning and gather all the flowers 
we can And. Will that make you happ}'^ ? ” 

“ Yes! ” he said, softly kissing the hem of her dress. “ It 
will make me happy — for the last time.” 

Then he rose in an attitude of attention, as though he 
had been called by some one at a distance, — and with a 
grave, preoccupied air he moved away, walking on tip-toe 
as though he feared to interrupt the sound of some soft in- 
visible music. Giildmar sighed as he watched him disap- 
pear. 

“ May the gods make us thankful for a clear brain when 
we have it 1 ” he said devoutly ; and then turning to his 
daughter, he bade her good night, and laid his hands on her 
golden head in silent but fervent blessing. “ Child,” he 
said tremulously, “ in the new joys that await thee, never 
forget how thy old father loves thee 1 ” 

Then, not trusting himself to say more, he strode into the 
house and betook himself to slumber. Thelma followed his 
example, and the old farmhouse was soon wrapped in the 
peace and stillness of the strange night — a night of glitter- 
ing sunshine. Sigurd alone was wakeful, — he lay at the 
foot of one of the tallest pine-trees, and stared persistently 
at the radiant sky through the network of dark branches, 
^ow and then he smiled as though he saw some beatific 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


191 


vision— sometimes he plucked fitfully at the soft long moss 
on which he had made his couch, and sometimes he broke 
into a low, crooning song. God alone knew the broken 
ideas, the dim fancies, the half-born desires, that glimmered 
like pale ghosts in the desert of his brain, — God alone, in 
the great Hereafter, could solve the problen of his sorrows 
and throw light on his soul’s darkness. 

It was past six in the morning when he arose, and 
smoothing back his tangled locks, went to Thelma’s window 
and sat down beneath it, in mute expectancy. He had not 
long to wait, — at the expiration of ten or fifteen minutes, ‘ 
the little lattice was thrown wide open, and the girl’s face, 
fresh as a rose, framed in a shower of amber locks, smiled 
down upon him. 

“ I am coming, Sigurd I ” she cried softly and joyously. 
“ How lovely the morning is I Stay for me there I I shall 
not be long.” 

And she disappeared, leaving her window open. Sigurd 
heard her singing little scraps of song to herself, as she 
moved about in the interior of her room. He listened, as 
though his soul were drawn out of him by her voice,— but 
presently the rich notes ceased, and there was a sudden 
silence. Sigurd knew or guessed the reason of that hush, 
— Thelma was at her prayers. Instinctively the poor for- 
lorn lad folded his wasted hands — most piteously and 
most imploringly he raised his bewildered eyes to the 
blue and golden glory of the sky. His conception of God 
was indefinable ; his dreams of heaven, chaotic minglingsof 
fairy-land with Valhalla, — but he somehow felt that where- 
ever Thelma’s holy aspirations turned, there the angels 
must be listening. 

Presently she came out of the house, looking radiant as 
the morning itself, — her luxuriant hair was thrown back 
over her shoulders, and fell loosely about her in thick curls, 
simply confined by a knot of blue ribbon. She carried a 
large osier basket, capacious, and gracefully shaped. 

“ Now, Sigurd,” she called sweetly, “ I am ready I 
Where shall we go ? ” 

Sigurd hastened to her side, happy and smiling. 

“ Across there,” he said, pointing toward the direction of 
Bosekop. “ There is a stream under the trees that laughs 
to itself all day — you know it, mistress ? And the poppies 
fire in the field as you go — and b^ the banks there are t*ie 


102 


THELMA. 


heart’s-ease flowers — we cannot have too many of them 1 
Shall we go ? ” 

“ Wherever you like, dear,” answered Thelma tenderly, 
looking down from her stately height on the poor stunted 
creature at her side, who held her dress as though he were 
a child clinging to her as his sole means of guidance. “All 
the land is pleasant to-day.” 

They left the farm and its boundaries. A few men were 
at work on one of Giildmar’s fields, and these looked up, — 
half in awe, half in fear, — as Thelma and her fantastic 
servitor passed along. 

“ ’Tis a fine wench I ” said one man, resting on his spade, 
and following with his eyes the erect, graceful figure of his 
employer’s daughter. 

“ Maybe, maybe 1 ” said another gruffly ; “ but a fine 
wench is a snare of the devil I Do ye mind what Lovisa 
Elsland told us ? ” 

“ Ay, ay,” answered the first speaker, “ Lovisa knows, — 
Lovisa is the wisest woman we have in these parts — that’s 
true ! The girl’s a witch, for sure I ” 

And they resumed their work in gloomy silence. Not 
one of them would have willingly labored on Olaf Giild- 
mar’s land, had not the wages he offered been above the 
usual rate of hire, — and times were bad in Norway. But 
otherwise, the superstitious fear of him was so great that 
his fields might have gone untilled and his crops ungath- 
ered, — however, as matters stood, none of them could deny 
that he was a good paymaster, and just in his dealings with 
those whom he employed. 

Thelma and Sigurd took their way in silence across a 
perfumed stretch of meadow-land, — the one naturally fer- 
tile spot in that somewhat barren district. Plenty of flow- 
ers blossomed at their feet, but they did not pause to gather 
these, for Sigurd was anxious to get to the stream where 
the purple pansies grew. They soon reached it — it was a 
silvery clear ribbon of water that unrolled itself in bright 
folds, through green, transparent tunnels of fern and wav- 
ing grass — leaping now and then with a swift dash over a 
smooth block of stone or jagged rock — but for the most 
part gliding softly, with a happy, self-satisfied murmur, as 
though it were some drowsy spirit dreaming joyous dreams. 
H 3re nodded the grave, purple-leaved pansies, — legendary 
consolers of the heart, — their little, quaint, expressive 
physiognomies turned in every direction j up to the sky, as 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


193 


thougk absorbing the sunlight, — down to the ground, with 
an almost severe air of meditation, or curled sidewa}"^ on 
their stems in a sort of sly reflectiveness. 

Sigurd was among them at once — they were his friends, 
— his playmates, his favorites, — and he gathered them 
quickly yet tenderly, murmuring as he did so, “ Yes, you 
must all die ; but death does not hurt ; no I life hurts, but 
neb death 1 See I as I pluck you, you itll grow wings and 
fly away — aw'ay to other meadows, and bloom again.” He 
paused, and a puzzled look came into his eyes. He turned 
toward Thelma, who had seated herself on a little knoll 
just above the stream, “ Tell me, mistress,” he said, ‘‘do the 
flowers go to heaven ? ” 

She smiled. “ I think so, dear Sigurd,” she said ; “ I 
hope so ! I am almost sure they do.” 

Sigurd nodded with an air of satisfaction. 

“ That is right,” he observed. “ It would never do to 
leave them behind, you know I They would be missed, and 

we should have to come down again and fetch them ” 

A crackling among the branches of some trees startled him, 
— he looked round, and uttered a peculiar cry like the cry 
of a wild animal, and exclaimed, “ Spies, spies ! ha I ha ! 
secret, wicked faces that are afraid to show themselves I 
Come out I Mistress, mistress make them come out 1 ” 

Thelma rose, surprised as his gesticulations, and came 
towards him ; to her utter astonishment she found herself 
confronted by old Lovisa Elsland, and the Reverend Mr. 
Dyceworthy’s servant, Ulrika. On both women’s faces 
there was a curious expression of mingled fear, triumph, 
and malevolence. Lovisa was the first to break silence. 

“ At last I ” she croaked, in a sort of slow, monotonous 
tone. “ At last, Thelma Giildmar, the Lord has delivered 
you into my hands ! ” 

Thelma drew Sigurd close to her, and slipped one arm 
around him. 

“ Poor soul ! ” she said softly, with sweet pitying eyes 
fixed fearlessly on the old hag’s withered, evil visage. 
“ You must be tired, wandering about on the hills as you 
do 1 If you are her friend,” she added, addressing Ulrika, 

why do you not make her rest at home and keep warm ? 
She is so old and feeble ! ” 

“ Feeble ! ” shrieked Lovisa ; “ feeble ! ” And she seemed 
choking with passion. “ If I had my fingers at your 

■’fijroat, you should then see if I am feeble I I ” Ulrika 

13 


194 


THELMA. 


pulled her hy he arm, and whispered something which had 
the effect of calming her a little. “ Well,” she said, “ you 
speak then ! I can wait ! ” 

Ulrika cleared her husky voice, and fixed her dull eyes 
on the girl’s radiant countenance. 

“ You must go away,” she said coldly and briefly. “ You 
and your father, and this creature,” and she pointed con- 
temptuously to th6 staring Sigurd. “ Do you understand ? 
You must leave the Altenfjord. The people are tired of 
you — tired of bad harvests, ill-luck, sickness, and continued 
poverty. You are the cause of all our miseries, — and we 
have resolved you shall not stay among us. Go quickly, — 
take the blight and pestilence of your presence elsewhere! 
Go I or if you will not ” 

“ We shall burn, burn, burn, and utterly destroy ! ” in- 
terrupted Lovisa, with a sort of eldritch shriek. “ The 
strong pine rafters of Olaf Giildmar’s dwelling shall be 
kindled into flame to light the hills with crimson, far and 
near! Not a plank shall be spared 1 — not a vestige of his 
pride be left ” 

“ Stop I ” said Thelma quietly. “ What do you mean ? 
You must both be very mad or very wicked I You want 
us to go away — ^you threaten to set fire to our home — 
why ? We have done you no harm. Tell me, poor soul ! ” 
and she turned with queenly forbearance to Lovisa, “ is it 
for Britta’s sake that you would burn the house she lives 
in? That is not wise I You cursed me the other day, — 
and why ? What have I done that you should hate me ? ” 

The old woman regarded her with steadfast, cruel eyes. 

“You are your mother’s child 1” she said. “I hated 
her — I hate you I You are a witch I — the village knows it 
— Mr. Dyceworthy knows it I Mr. Dyceworthy says we 
shall be justified in the Lord’s sight for wreaking evil upon 
you 1 Evil, evil be on those of evil deeds I ” 

“ Then shall the evil fall on Mr. Dyceworthy,” said the 
girl calmly. “ He is wicked in himself, — and doubly wicked 
to encourage you in wickedness. He is ignorant and false 
— why do you believe in such a man ? ” 

“ He is a saint — a saint I ” cried Lovisa wildly. “ And 
shall the daughter of Satan withstand his power ? ” And 
she clapped her hands in a sort of fierce ecstasy. 

Thelma glanced at her pityingly and smiled. “ A saint I 
Poor thing, how little you know him ! ” she said. “ And it 
is a pity you should hate me, for I have done you no 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


195 


wrong, I would do good to all if I knew how, — tell me 
can I comfort you, or make your life more cheerful ? It 
must be hard to be so old and all alone I ” 

“ Your death would comfort me I ” returned Lovisa 
grimly. “ Why do you keep Britta from me ? ” 

“ I do not keep her,” Thelma answered. “ She stays 
with me because she is happy. Why do you grudge her, 
her happiness? And as for burning my father’s house, 
surely you would not do so wicked and foolish a thing I — 
but still, you must do as you choose, for it is not possible 
that we shall leave the Altenfjord to please you.” 

Here Ulrika started- forward angrily. “ You defy us ! ” 
she cried. “You will not go?” And in her excitement 
she seized Thelma’s arm roughly. 

This action was too much for Sigurd ; he considered it 
an attack on the person of his beloved mistress and he re- 
sented it at once in his own fashion. Throwing himself on 
Ulrika with sudden ferocity, he pushed and beat her back 
as though he were a wolf-hound struggling with refractory 
prey ; and though the ancient Lovisa rushed to the rescue, 
and Thelma imploringly called upon her zealous champion 
to desist, — all remonstrances were unavailing, till Sigurd 
had reduced his enemy to the most abject and whimpering 
terror. 

“ A demon — a demon I ” she sobbed and moaned, as the 
valiant dwarf at last released her from his clutches ; and, 
tossing his long, fair locks over his misshapen shoulders, 
laughed loudly and triumphantly with delight at his vic- 
tory. “ Lovisa ! Lovisa Elsland I this is your doing ; you 
brought this upon me I I may die now, and you will not 

care ! O Lord, Lord, have mercy ” 

Suddenly she stopped ; her e3^es dilated, — her face grew 
grey with the sickening pallor of fear. Slowly she raised 
her hand and pointed to Sigurd — his fantastic dress had be- 
come disordered in the affray, and his jacket was torn open, 
— and on his bare chest a long red scar in the shape of a 
cross was distinctly visible. “ That scar I ” she muttered. 
“ How did he get that scar ? ” 

Lovisa stared at her in impatient derision. Thelma was 
too surprised to answer immediately, and Sigurd took it 
upon himself to furnish what he considered a crushing re- 

pi.y- 

“Odin’s mark!” he said, patting the scar with much 
elation. “ No wonder you are afraid of it ! Everybody 


196 


THELMA. 


knows it — birds, flowers, trees, and stars I Even you — you 
are afraid I ” 

And he laughed again, and snapped his fingers in her 
face. The woman shuddered violently. Step by step she 
drew near to the wondering Thelma, and spoke in low and 
trembling accents, without a trace of her former anger. 

“ T? ey say you are wicked,” she said slowly, “ and that 
the devil has 3^our soul read}^, before you are dead I But 
I am not afraid of you. No ; I will forgive you, and pray 
for you, if you will tell me, . . She paused, and then 

continued, as with a strong effort. “ Yes — tell me who is 
this Sigurd ? ” 

“ Sigurd is a fou dling,” answered Thelma simply. He 
was floating about in th Fjord in a basket, and my father 
saved him. He was qui^e a baby. He had this scar on his 
chest then. He has lived with us ever since.” 

Ulrika looked at her searchingly, — then bent her head, — 
whether in gratitude or despair it was difficult to say. 

“ Lovisa Elsland,” she said monotonously, “ I am going 
home. I cannot help you any longer ! I am tired — ill.” 
Here she suddenly broke down, and, throwing up her arms 
with a wild gesture, she cried, “ 0 God, God I 0 God! ” 
and burst into a stormy passion of sobs and tears. 

Thelma, touched by her utter misery, would have offered 
consolation, but Lovisa repelled her with a fierce gesture. 

“Go!” said the old woman harshly. “ You have cast 
your spells upon her — I am witness of your work 1 And shall 
you escape just punishment ? No ; not while there is a God 
in heaven, and I, Lovisa Elsland, live to perform His bid- 
ding I Go, — white devil that you are 1 — go and carrj^ mis- 
fortune upon misfortune to your fine gentleman-lover I 
Ah ! ” and she chuckled maliciously as the girl recoiled 
from her, her proud face growing suddenly paler, “ have I 
touched you there ? Lie in his breast, and it shall be as 
though a serpent stung him, — kiss his lips, and your touch 
shall be poison, — live in doubt, and die in miser}" ! Go I and 
may all evil follow you 1 ” 

She raised her staff and waved it majestically, as though 
she drew a circle in the air, — Thelma smiled pityingly, but 
deigned no answer to her wild ravings. 

“ Come, Sigurd I ” she said simply, “ let us return home. 
It is growing late — father will wonder where we are.” 

“ Yes, yes,” agreed Sigurd, seizing the basket full of the 
pansies he had plucked. “ The sunshine is slipping away, 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. Id7 

and we cannot live with shadows I These are not reai 
women, mistress ; they are dreams — black dreams, — I have 
often fought with dreams, and I know how to make them 
afraid I See how the one weeps because she knows me, — 
and the other is just going to fall into a grave. I can hear 
the clods thrown on her head — thump — thump I It does not 
take long to bury a dream I Come, mistress, let us follow 
the sunshine I ” 

And, taking the hand she extended towards him, he 
turned away, looking back once, however, to call out 
loudly — 

“ Good-bye, bad dreams 1 ” 

As they disappeared behind the trees, Lovisa turned 
angrily to the still-sobbing Ulrika. 

“ What is this folly ? ” she exclaimed, striking her staff 
fiercely into the ground. “ Art mad or bewitched ? ” 

IJlrika looked up, — her plain face swollen and stained 
with weeping. 

“ 0 Lord, have mercy upon me I 0 Lord, forgive me I ” 
she moaned. “ I did not know it — how could I know ? ” 

Lovisa grew so impatient that she seized her by the 
shoulder and shook her violentl^^ 

“ Know what ? ” she cried ; “ know what ? ” 

“ Sigurd is my son I ” said Ulrika, with a sort of solemn 
resignation, — then, with a sudden gesture, she threw her 
hands above her head, crying, “ My son, my son 1 The 
child I thought I had killed I The Lord be praised I did 
not murder him I ” 

Lovisa Elsland seemed stupefied with surprise. “ Is this 
the truth ? ” she asked at last, slowly and incredulously. 

“ The truth, the truth I ” cried Ulrika passionately. “ It 
is always the truth that comes to light I He is my child, I 
tell you I ... I gave him that scar I” She paused, 
shuddering, and continued in a lower tone, “ I tried to kill 
him with a knife, but when the blood flowed, it sickened me, 
and I could not I He was an infant abortion — the evil 
fruit of an evil deed — and I threw him out to the waves, — 
as I told you, long ago. You have had good use of my 
confession, Lovisa Elsland ; you have held me in your 
power by means of my secret, but now — ” 

The old woman interrupted her with a low laugh of con- 
tempt and malice. 

“ As the parents are, so are the children I ” she said scorn- 


198 


THELMA. 


fully. “ Your lover must have been a fine man, Ulrika, if 
the son is iike his father I ” 

Ulrika glared at her vengefully, then drew herself up with 
an air of defiance. 

“ I care nothing for your taunts, Lovisa Elsland ! ” she 
said. “ You can do me no harm I All is over between us I 
I will help in no mischief against the Giildmars. What- 
ever their faults, they saved — my child ! ” 

“ Is that so great a blessing ? ” asked Lovisa ironically. 

“ It makes your threats useless,” answered Ulrika. “ You 
cannot call me murderess again I ” 

“ Coward and fool I ” shrieked Lovisa. “ Was it your in- 
tent that the child should live ? Were you not glad to think 
it dead ? And cannot I spread the story of your infamy 
through all the villages where you are known ? Is not the 
wretched boy himself a living witness of the attempt you 
made to kill him ? Does not that scar speak against you ? 
Would not Olaf Giildmar relate the story of the child’s 
rescue to any one that asked him ? Would you like all Bose- 
kop to know of your intrigue with an escaped criminal, who 
was afterwards caught and hung I The virtuous Ulrika — > 
the zealous servant of the Gospel — the pious, praying 
Ulrika 1 ” and the old woman trembled with rage and ex- 
citement. “ Out of my power ? Never, never ! As long as 
there is breath in my body I will hold you down ! Not a 
murderess, you say ? ” 

“ No,” said Ulrika very calmly, with a keen look, “ I am 
not — but you are 1 ” 


CHAPTER XYI. 

“ II n’y a personne qui ait eu autant d souflfrir d votre sujet que 
moi depuis ma naissance ! aussi je voiis supplie d deux genoux et au 
nom de Dieu, d’avoir pitid de moi ! ” — Old Breton Ballad. 

In a few more days Thelma’s engagement to Sir Philip 
Bruce-Errington was the talk of the neighborhood. The 
news spread gradually, having been, in the first place, 
started by Britta, whose triumph in her mistress’s happi- 
ness was charming to witness. It reached the astonished 
and reluctant ears of the Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy, whose 
rage was so great that it destroyed his appetite for twenty- 
four hours. But the general impression in the neighbor- 
hood, where superstition maintained so strong a hold on the 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN, 


19 ^ 


primitive and prejudiced minds of the people, was that the 
reckless young Englishman would rue the day on which he 
wedded “ the white witch of the Altenfjord.” 

Guldmar was regarded with more suspicion than ever, as 
having used some secret and diabolical ijifluence to promote 
the match ; and the whole party were, as it seemed, tabooed, 
and looked upon as given up to the most unholy practices. 

Needless to say, the opinions of the villagers had no 
effect whatever on the good spirits of those who were thus 
unfavorably criticised, and it would have been difficult to 
find a merrier group than that assembled one fine morning 
in front of Guldmar’s house, all equipped from top to toe 
for some evidently unusually lengthy and arduous mountain 
excursion. Each man carried a long, stout stick, portable 
flask, knapsack, and rug — the latter two articles strapped 
together and slung across the shoulder — and they all pre- 
sented an eminently picturesque appearance, particularly 
Sigurd, who stood at a little distance from the others, lean- 
ing on his tall staff and gazing at Thelma with an air of 
peculiar pensiveness and abstraction. 

She was at that moment busied in adjusting Errington’s 
knapsack more comfortably, her fair, laughing face turned 
up to his, and her bright eyes alight with love and tender 
solicitude. 

“ I’ve a good mind not to go at all,” he whispered in her 
ear. “ I’ll come back and stay with you all day.” 

“ You foolish boy I ” she answered merrily. “ You would 
miss seeing the grand fall — all for what ? To sit with me 
and watch me spinning, and you would grow so very sleepy I 
Now, if I were a man, I would go with you.” 

“ I’m very glad ^^ou’re not a man 1 ” said Errington, 
pressing the little hand that had just buckled his shoulder- 
strap. “ Though I wish you were going with us. But I 
say, Thelma, darling, won’t you be lonely ? ” 

She laughed gaily. “ Lonely ? 1 1 Why, Britta is with 
me — besides, I am never lonely noivN She uttered the last 
word softly, with a shy, upward glance. “ I have so much 

to think about ” She paused and drew her hand 

away from her lover’s close clasp. “ Ah,” she resumed, 
with a mischievous smile, “ you are a conceited boy I You 
want to be missed 1 You wish me to say that I shall feel 
most miserable all the time you are away I If I do, I shall 
not tell you ! ” 

“ Thelma, child ? ” called Olaf Guldmar, at this juncture, 


200 


THELMA. 


“ keep the gates bolted and doors barred while we are ab- 
sent. Remember, thou and Britta nmst pass the night 
alone here, — we cannot be at home ti’' late in the evening of 
to-morrow. Let no one inside the garden, and deny thyself 
to all comers. Dost thou hear ” 

“ Yes, father,” she responded meekly. 

“ And let Britta keep good g lard that her crazy hag of 
a grandam come not hither to disturb or fright thee with 
her croaking, — for thou" hast not even Sigurd to protect 
thee.” 

“ Not even Sigurd ! ” said that personage, with a medita- 
tive smile. “ No, mistress ; not even poor Sigurd ! ” 

“ One of us might remain behind,” suggested Lorimer, 
with a side-look at his friend. 

“ Oh no, no I ” exclaimed Thelma anxiously. “ It would 
vex me so much I Britta and I have often been alone be- 
fore. We are quite safe, are we not, father ? ” 

“ Safe enough I ” said the old man, with a laugh. “ I 
know of no one save Lovisa Elsland who has the courage 
to face thee, child I Still, pretty witch as thou art, ’twill 
not harm thee to put the iron bar across the house door, 
and to lock fast the outer gate when we have gone. This 
done, I have no fear of thy safety. Now,” and he kissed 
his daughter heartily, “ now lads, ’tis time we were on the 
march I Sigurd, my boy, lead on I ” 

“ Wait I ” cried Sigurd, springing to Thelma’s side. “ I 
must say good-bye [ ’ And he caught the girl’s hand and 
kissed it, — then plucking a rose, he left it between her fin- 
gers. “ That will remind you of Sigurd, mistress I Think 
of him once to-day I — once again when the midnight glory 
shines. Good-bye, mistress ! that is what the dead say, . 
. . Good-bye ! ” 

And with a passionate gesture of farewell, he ran and 
placed himself at the head of the little group that waited 
for him, saying exultingly — 

“ Now follow me I Sigurd knows the way I Sigurd is 
the friend of all the wild waterfall ! Up the hills, — across 
the leaping stream, — through the sparkling foam ! ” And 
be began chanting to himself a sort of wild mountain song. 

Macfarlane looked at him dubiously. “ Are ye sure ? ” 
he said to Giildmar. “ Are ye sure that wee chap kens 
whaur he’s gaun ? He’ll no lead us into a ditch an’ leave 
us there, mistakin’ it for the Fall ? ” 

Giildmar laughed heartily “ Never fear I Sigurd’s the 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN, 


201 


best guide you can have, in spite of his fancies. He knows ' 
all the safest and surest paths ; and Njedegorze is no easy 
place to reach, I can tell you ! ” 

“ Pardon I How is it called ? ” asked Duprfez eagerly. 

“ Njedegorze.” 

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. “ I give it 
up! ” he said smilingly. “ Mademoiselle Gtildmar, if any< 
thing happens to me at this cascade with the name unpro' 
nounceable, you will again be my doctor, will you not ? ” 

Thelma laughed as she shook hands with him. “ Nothing 
will happen,” she rejoined ; “ unless, indeed, 3^ou catch cold 
by sleeping in a hut all night. Father, you must see that 
they do not catch cold I ” 

The bonde nodded, and motioned the party forward, 
Sigurd leading the way, — Errington, however, lingered be- 
hind on pretense of having forgotten something, and, draw- 
ing his betrothed in his arms, kissed her fondly. 

“ Take care of yourself, darling 1 ” he murmured, — and 
then hurrying away he rejoined his friends, who had dis^ 
erectly refrained from looking back, and therefore had not 
seen the lovers embrace. 

Sigurd, however, had seen it, and the sight apparently 
gave fresh impetus to his movements, for he sprang up the 
adjacent hill with so much velocity that those who followed 
had some difficulty to keep up with him, — audit was not till 
they were out of sight of the farmhouse that he resumed 
anything like a reasonable pace. 

As soon as they had disappeared, Thelma turned into the 
house and seated herself at her spinning-wheel. Brittasoon 
entered the room, carrying the same graceful implement of 
industry, and the two maidens sat together for some time 
in a silence unbroken, save by the low melodious whirring 
of the two wheels, and the mellow complaints of the strut- 
ting doves on the window-sill. 

“ Frdken Thelma I ” said Britta at last, timidly. 

“ Yes, Britta ? ” And her mistress looked up inquir- 
ingly. 

“ Of what use is it for you to spin now ? ” queried the 
little handmaid. “ You will be a great lady, and great 
ladies do not work at all ! ” 

Thelma’s wheel revolved more and more slowly, till at 
last it stopped altogether. 

“ Do they not ? ” she said half inquiringly and musingly. 

‘‘ I think you must be wrong, Britta. It is impossible that 


202 


THELMA. 


there should be people who are always idle. I do not know 
what great ladies are like.” 

“ I do I ” And Britta nodded her curly head sagaciously. 
“ There was a girl from Hammerfest who went to Chris- 
tiania to seek service — she was handy at her needle, and a 
fine spinner, and a great lady took her right away from 
Norway to London. And the lady bought her spinning- 
wheel for a curiosity she said, — and put it in the corner of 
a large parlor, and used to show it to her friends, and they 
would all laugh and say, ‘ How pretty ! ’ And Jansena, — 
that was the girl — never span again — she wore linen that 
she got from the shops, — and it was always falling into 
holes, and Jansena was always mending, mending, and it 
was no good I ” 

Thelma laughed. “ Then it is better to spin, after all, 
Britta — is it not ? ” 

Britta looked dubious. ‘‘ I do not know,” she answered ; 
“ but I am sure great ladies do not spin. Because, as I 
said to you, Broken, this Jansena’s mistress was a great 
lady, and she never did anything, — no I nothing at all, — 
but she put on wonderful dresses, and sat in her room, or 
was driven about in a carriage. And that is what you will 
do also. Broken I ” 

“ Oh no, Britta,” said Thelma decisively. “ I could not 
be so idle. Is it not fortunate I have so much linen ready ? 
I have quite enough for marriage.” 

The little maid looked wistful. “ Yes, dear Broken,” 
she murmured hesitatingly ; “ but I was thinking if it is 
right for you to wear what you have spun. Because, you 
see, Jansena’s mistress had wonderful things all trimmed 
with lace, — and they would all come back from the washing 
torn and hanging in threads, and Jansena had to mend 
those as well as her own clothes. You see, they do not 
last at all — and they cost a large sum of money ; but it is 
proper for great ladies to wear them.” 

“ I am not sure of that, Britta,” said Thelma, still mus- 
ingly. “ But still, it may be — my bridal things may not 
please Philip. If you know anything about it, you must 
tell me what is right.” « 

Britta was in a little perplexity. She had gathered 
some idea from her friend Jansena concerning life in Lon- 
don, — she had even a misty notion of what was meant by a 
“ trousseau ” with all its dainty, expensive, and often use- 
less fripperies ; but she did not know how to explain her- 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN, 


m 


self to her young mistress, whose simple, almost severe 
tastes would, she instinctively felt, recoil from anything 
like ostentation in dress, so she was discreetly silent. 

“ You know, Britta,” continued Thelma gently, “ I shall 
be Philip’s wife, and I must not vex him in any little 
thing. But I do not quite understand. I have always 
dressed in the same way, — and he has never said that he 
thought me wrongly clothed.” 

And she looked down with quite a touching pathos at 
her straight, white woolen gown, and smoothed its folds 
doubtfully. The impulsive Britta sprang to her side and 
kissed her with girlish and unaffected enthusiasm. 

“ My dear, my dear! You are more lovely and sweet 
than anybody in the world I ” she cried. “ And I am sure 
Sir Philip thinks so too I ” 

A beautiful roseate flush suffused Thelma’s cheeks, and 
she smiled. 

“Yes, I know he does!” she replied softly. “And, 
after all, it does not matter what one wears.” 

Britta was meditating, — she looked lovingly at her mis- 
tress’s rippling wealth of hair. 

“ Diamonds 1 ” she murmured to herself in a sort of satis- 
fied soliloquy. “ Diamonds, like those you have on your 
finger, Frdken, — diamonds all scattered among your curls 
like dew-drops I And white satin, all shining, shining I — 
people would take you for an angel I ” 

Thelma laughed merrily. “ Britta, Britta ! You are 
talking such nonsense ! Nobody dresses so grandly ex- 
cept queens in fairy-tales.” 

“ Do they not ? ” and the wise Britta looked more pro- 
found than ever. “ Well, we shall see, dear Broken — we 
shall see ! ” 

“ We f ” queried Thelma with surprised emphasis. 

Her little maid blushed vividl}^, and looked down de- 
murely, twisting and untwisting the string of her apron. 

“ Yes, Broken,” she said in a low tone. “ I have asked 
Sir Philip to let me go with you when you leave Norway.” 

“ Britta ! ” Thelma’s astonishment was too great for 
more than this exclamation. 

“Oh, my dear ! don’t be angry with me ! ” implored 
Britta, with sparkling eyes, rosy cheeks, and excited 
tongue all pleading eloquently together, “ I should die here 
without you 1 I told the bonde so ; I did, indeed ! And 
then I went to Sir Philip — he is such a grand gentleman, — 


204 


THELMA. 


so proud and yet so kind, — and I asked him to let me still 
be your servant. I said I knew all great ladies had a maid, 
and if I was not clever enough I could learn, and — and — ” 
here Britta began to sob, “ I said I did not want any wages 
— only to live in a little corner of the same house where you 
were, — to sew for you, and see you, and hear your voice 

sometimes ” Here the poor little maiden broke down 

altogether and hid her face in her apron crying bitterly. 

The tears were in Thelma’s e^^es too, and she hastened to 
put her arm round Britta’s waist, and tried to soothe her 
by every loving word she could think of. 

“ Hush, Britta dear ! you must not cry,” she said ten- 
derly. “ What did Philip say ? ” 

“ He said,” jerked out Britta convulsively, “ that I was a 
g-good little g-girl, and that he was g-glad I wanted to 
g-go I ” Here her two sparkling wet eyes peeped out of the 
apron inquiringly, and seeing nothing but the sweetest af- 
fection on Thelma’s attentive face, she went on more stead- 
ily. “ He p-pinched my cheek, and he laughed — and he 
said he would rather have me for your maid than anybody 
— there I ” 

And this last exclamation was uttered with so much de- 
fiance that she dashed away the apron altogether, and stood 
erect in self-congratulatory glory, with a particularly red 
little nose and very trembling lips. Thelma smiled, and 
caressed the tumbled brown curls. 

“I am very glad, Britta ! ” she said earnestly. “Noth- 
ing could have pleased me more I I must thank Philip. 
But it is of father I am thinking — what will father and 
Sigurd do ? ” 

“ Oh, that is all settled, Broken,” said Britta, recovering 
herself rapidly from her outburst. “ The bonde means to 
go for one of his long voyages in the Valkyrie — it is time 
she was used again, I’m sure, — and Sigurd will go with 
him. It will do them both good — and the tongues of Bose- 
kop can waggle as much as they please, none of us will be 
here to mind them I ” 

“ And you will escape your grandmother ! ” said Thelma 
amusedly, as she once more set her spinning-wheel in mo- 
tion. 

Britta laughed delightedly. “ Yes I she will not find her 
way to England without some trouble 1 ” she exclaimed. 
“ Oh, how happy I shall be I And you ” — she looked 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


205 


pleadingly at her mistress — “ you do not dislike me for 
your servant ? ” 

“ Dislike I ” and Thelma gave her a glance of mingled 
reproach and tenderness. “ You know how fond I am of 
you, Britta I It will he like having a little bit of my old 
home always with me.” 

Silently Britta kissed her hand, and then resumed her 
work. The monotonous murmur of the two wheels recom- 
menced, — this time pleasantly accompanied by the rippling 
chatter of the two girls, who, after the fashion of girls all 
the world over, indulged in many speculations as to the 
new and strange life that lay before them. 

Their ideas were of the most primitive character, — Britta 
had never been out of Norway, and Thelma’s experiences, 
apart from her home life, extended merely to the narrow 
and restricted bounds of simple and severe convent disci- 
pline, where she had been taught that the pomps and vani- 
ties of the world were foolish and transient shows, and that 
nothing could please God more than purity and rectitude of 
soul. Her character was formed, and set upon a firm basis 
— firmer than she herself was conscious of. The nuns who 
had been entrusted with her education had fulfilled their 
task with more than their customary zeal — they were inter- 
ested in the beautiful Norwegian child for the sake of her 
mother, who had also been their charge. One venerable 
nun in particular had bestowed a deep and lasting benefit 
on her, for, seeing her extraordinary beauty, and forestall- 
ing the dangers and temptations into which the possession 
of such exceptional charms might lead her, she adopted a 
wise preventive course, that cased her as it were in armor, 
proof against all the assailments of flattery. She told the 
girl quite plainly that she was beautiful, — but at the same 
time made her aware that beauty was common, — that she 
shared it alike with birds, flowers, trees, and all the won- 
derful objects of nature — moreover, that it was nothing to 
boast of, being so perishable. 

“ Suppose a rose foolish enough to boast of its pretty 
leaves,” said the gentle religieuse on one occasion. “ They 
all fall to the ground in a short time, and become decayed 
and yellow — it is only the fragrance, or the soul of the rose 
that lasts.” Such precepts, that might have been wasted 
on a less sensitive and thoughtful nature, sank deeply into 
Thelma’s mind — she accepted them not only in theor}^ but 
in practice, and the result was that she accepted her beauty 


206 


THELMA. 


as she accepted her health, — as a mere natural occurrence— i 
no more. She was taught that the three principal virtues 
of a woman were chastity, humility, and obedience, — these 
were the laws of God, fixed and immutable, which no one 
dared break without committing grievous and unpardonable 
sin. So she thought, and according to her thoughts she 
lived. What a strange world, then, lay before her in the 
contemplated change that was about to take place in the 
even tenor of her existence I A world of intrigue and folly 
— a world of infidelity and falsehood ! — how would she meet 
it ? It was a question she never asked herself — she thought 
London a sort of magnified Christiania, or at best, the 
Proven9al town of Arles on a larger scale. She had heard 
her father speak of it, but only in a vague way, and she 
had been able to form no just idea even to herself of the 
enormous metropolis crowded to excess with its glad and 
sorrowful, busy and idle, rich and poor millions. England 
itself floated before her fancy as a green, fertile, embowered 
island where Shakespeare had lived — and it delighted her 
to know that her future home, Errington Manor, was situ- 
ated in Warwickshire, Shakespeare’s county. Of the so- 
ciety that awaited her she had no notion, — she was pre- 
pared to “ keep house ” for her husband in a very simple 
way — to spin his household linen, to spare him all trouble 
and expense, and to devote herself body and soul to his 
service. As may be well imagined, the pictures she drew 
of her future married life, as she sat and span with Britta 
on that peaceful afternoon, were widely different to the des- 
tined reality that every day approached her more nearly. 

Meantime, while the two girls were at home and undis- 
turbed in the quiet farm house, the mountaineering party, 
headed by Sigurd, were well on their way towards the great 
Fall of Njedegorze. They had made a toilsome ascent of 
the hills by the side of the Alten river — they had climbed 
over craggy boulders and slippery rocks, sometimes wading 
knee-deep in the stream, or pausing to rest and watch the 
salmon leap and turn glittering somersaults in the air close 
above the diamond-clear water, — and they had beguiled 
their fatigue with songs and laughter, and the telling of fan- 
tastic legends and stories in which Sigurd had shone at his 
best — indeed, this unhappy being was in a singularly clear 
and rational frame of mind, disposed, too, to be agreeable 
even towards Errington. Lorimer, who for reasons of his 
own, had kept a close watch on Sigurd ever since his 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 207 

friend’s engagement to Thelma, was surprised and gratified 
at this change in his former behavior, and encouraged him 
in it, while Errington himself responded to the dwarfs 
proffered friendship, and walked beside him, chatting cheer- 
fully, during the most part of the excursion to the Fall. 
It was a long and exceedingly difficult journey — and in 
some parts dangerous — but Sigurd proved himself worthy 
of the commendations bestowed on him by the bonde^ and 
guided them by the easiest and most secure paths, till at 
last, about seven o’clock in the evening, they heard the 
rush and roar of the rapids below the Fall, and with half 
an hour’s more exertion, came in sight of them, though not 
as yet of the Fall itself. Yet the rapids were grand 
enough to merit attention — and the whole party stopped to 
gaze on the whirling wonders of water that, hissing furi- 
ously, circled round and round giddily in wheels of white 
foam, and then, as though enraged, leaped high over 
obstructing stones and branches, and rushed onward and 
downward to the smoother length of the river. 

The noise was deafening, — they could not hear each 
other speak unless by shouting at the top of their voices, 
and even then the sounds were rendered almost indistinct 
by the riotous uproar. Sigurd, however, who knew all the 
ins and outs of the place, sprang lightly on a jutting crag, 
and, putting both hands to his mouth, uttered a peculiar, 
shrill, and far-reaching cr3^ Clear above the turmoil of the 
restless waters, that cry was echoed back eight distinct 
times from the surrounding rocks and hills. Sigurd 
laughed triumphantly. 

“ You see I ” he exclaimed, as he resumed his leadership 
of the party, “ they all know me I They are obliged to 
answer me when I call — they dare not disobey ! ” And his 
blue eyes flashed with that sudden wild fire that generally 
foretold some access of his particular mania. 

Errington saw this and said soothingly, “ Of course not, 
Sigurd I No one would dream of disobeying j^ou ! See 
how we follow you to-day — we all do exactly what you tell 
us.” 

“We are sheep, Sigurd,” added Lorimer lazily ; “ and 
you are the shepherd I ” 

Sigurd looked from one to the other half doubtingly, 
half cunningly. He smiled. 

“ Yes I ” he said. “ You will follow me, will you not? 
Up to the very top of the Fall ? ” 


208 


THELMA. 


“ By all means I ” answered Sir Philip gaily. “ Any 
where you choose to go I ” 

Sigurd seemed satisfied, and lapsing into the calm, com- 
posed manner which had distinguished him all day, he led 
the way as before, and they resumed their march, this time 
in silence, for conversation was well-nigh impossible. The 
nearer they came to the yet invisible Fall, the more thun- 
derous grew the din — it was as though they approached 
some vast battle-field, where opposing armies were in full 
action, with all the tumult of cannonade and musketry. 
The ascent grew steeper and more diflScult — at times the 
high barriers of rocks seemed almost impassable, — often 
they were compelled to climb over confused heaps of huge 
stones, through which the eddying water pushed its way 
with speed and fury, — but Sigurd’s precision was never at 
fault, — he leaped crag after crag swiftly and skillfully, 
always lighting on a sure foothold, and guiding the others 
to do the same. At last, at a sharp turn of one of these 
rocky eminences, they perceived an enormous cloud of 
white vapor rising up like smoke from the earth, and twist- 
ing itself as it rose, in swaying, serpentine folds, as though 
some giant spirit-hand were shaking it to and fro like a long 
flowing veil in the air. Sigurd paused and pointed forward. 

“ Njedegorze I ” he cried. 

They all pressed on with some excitement. The ground 
vibrated beneath their feet with the shock of the falling tor- 
rent, and the clash and uproar of the disputing waters 
rolled in their ears like the grand, sustained bass of some 
huge cathedral organ. Almost blinded by the spray that 
dashed its disdainful drops in their faces, deafened by the 
majestic, loud, and ceaseless eloquence that poured its per- 
suasive force into the splitting hearts of the rocks around 
them, — breathless with climbing, and well-nigh tread out, 
they struggled on, and broke into one unanimous shout of 
delight and triumph when they at last reached the small 
hut that had been erected for the convenience of travellers 

who might choose that way to journey to the Alten^ord, 

and stood face to face with the magnificent cascade, one of 
the grandest in Norway. What a sublime spectacle it was! 
— that tempest of water sweeping sheer down the towering 
rocks in one straight, broad, unbroken sheet of foam I A 
myriad rainbows hashed in the torrent and vanished, to re- 
appear again instantly with redoubled lustre, — while the 
glory of the evening sunlight glittering on one siae of the 


THE LAND OF THE BIIDNIGHT SUN. 


209 


fall made it gleam like a sparkling shower of molten 
gold. 

“ Njedegorze ! ” cried Sigurd again, giving a singularly 
musical pronunciation to the apparently uncouth name. 
“ Come 1 still a little further, — to the top of the Fall ! ” 

Olaf Giildmar, however, paid no attention to this invita- 
tion. He was already beginning to busy himself with prep- 
arations for passing the night comfortably in the hut be- 
fore mentioned. Stout old Norseman as he was, there were 
limits to his endurance, and the arduous exertions of the 
long day had brought fatigue to him as well as to the rest of 
the party. 

Macfarlane was particularly exhausted. His frequent 
pulls at the whiskey flask had been of little or no avail as a 
support to his aching limbs, and, now he had reached his 
destination, he threw himself full length on the turf in front 
of the hut and groaned most dismally. 

Lorimer surveyed him amusedly, and stood beside him, 
the very picture of a cool young Briton whom nothing 
could possibly discompose. 

“ Done up — eh, Sandy ? ” he inquired. 

“ Done up I ” growled Macfarlane. “ D’ye think I’m a 
Norseman or a jumping Frenchy ? ” This with a look of 
positive indignation at the lively Duprez, who, if tired, was 
probably too vain to admit it, for he was strutting about, 
giving vent to his genuine admiration of the scene before 
him with the utmost freshness and enthusiasm. “ I’m just a 
plain Scotchman, an’ no such a fule at climbin’ either 1 
Why, man, I’ve been up Goatfell in Arran, an’ Ben Lom- 
ond an’ Ben Nevis — there’s a mountain for 3 ^e, if ye like I 
But a brae like this, wi’ a’ the stanes lyin’ helter-skelter, an’ 
crags that ye can barely hold on to — and a mad chap 
guidin’ ye on at the speed o’ a leapin’ goat — I tell ye, I 
havena been used to’t.” Here he drew out his flask and 
took another extensive pull at it. Then he added suddenly, 
“ Just look at Errington ! He’ll be in a fair wa^" to break 
his neck if he follows yon wee crazy loon any further.” 

At these words Lorimer turned sharply round, and per- 
ceived his friend following Sigurd step by step up a narrow 
footing in the steep ascent of some rough, irregular crags 
that ran out and formed a narrow ledge, ending in a sharp 
point, jritting directly over the full fury of the waterfall. 
He watched the two climbing figures for an instant with- 
out any anxiety, — then he suddenly remenibered that Philip 
14 


210 


THELMA. 


had promised to go with Sigurd “ to the top of the Fall.’*’ 
Acting on a rapid impulse which he did not stop to explain 
to himself, Lorimer at once started off after them, — but the 
ascent was difficult ; they were some distance ahead, and 
though he shouted vociferously, the roar of the cascade ren- 
dered his voice inaudible. Gaining on them, however, by 
slow degrees, he was startled when all at once they disap- 
peared at the summit — and, breathless with his rapid 
climb, he paused, bewildered. By-and-by he saw Sigurd 
creeping cautiously out along the rocky shelf that overhung 
the tumbling torrent — his gaze grew- riveted with a sort of 
deadly fascination on the spot. 

“ Good God I ” he muttered under his breath. “ Surely 
Phil will not follow him there ! ” 

He watched with strained eyes, — and a smothered cry 
escaped him as Errington’s tall figure, erect and bold, ap- 
peared on that narrow and dangerous platform ! He never 
knew how he clambered up the rest of the slippery ascent. 
A double energy seemed given to his active limbs. He 
never paused again for one second till he also stood on the 
platform, without being heard or perceived by either Si- 
gurd or Philip. Their backs were turned to him, and he 
feared to move or speak, lest a sudden surprised movement 
on their parts should have the fatal result of precipitating 
one or both into the fall. He remained, therefore, behind 
them, silent and motionless, — looking, as they looked, at 
the terrific scene below. From that point, Njedegorze was 
as a huge boiling caldron, from which arose twisted wreaths 
and coiling lengths of white vapor, faintly colored with gold 
and silvery blue. ^ Dispersing in air, these mists took all 
manner of fantastic forms, — ghostly arms seemed to wave 
and beckon, ghostly hands to unite in prayer, — and flutter- 
ing creatures in gossamer draperies of green and crimson 
appeared to rise and float, and retire and shrink, to noth- 
ingness again in the rainbow drift and sweep of whirling 
foam. Errington gazed unconcernedly down on the seeth- 
ing abyss. He pushed back his cap from his brow, and lei 
the fresh wind play among his dark, clustering curls. His 
nerves were steady, and he surveyed the giddil}^ twisting 
wheels of shining water, without any corresponding giddi- 
ness in his own brain. He had that sincere delight in a 
sublime natural spectacle, which is the heritage of all who 
possess a poetic and artistic temperament ; and though he 
stood on a frail ledge of rock, from Tvhich one false or un- 


TEE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


211 


wary step might send him to certain destruction, he had 
not the slightest sense of possible danger in his position. 
Withdrawing his eyes from the Fall, he looked kindly down 
at Sigurd, who in turn was staring up at him with a wild 
fixity of regard. 

“ Well, old boy,” he said cheerfully, “ this is a fine sight I 
Have you had enough of it ? Shall we go back ? ” 

Sigurd drew imperceptibly nearer. Lorimer, from his 
point of vantage behind a huge bowlder, drew nearer also. 

“Ho back?” echoed Sigurd. “Why should we go 
back?” 

“Why, indeed!” laughed Erringt on, lightly balancing 
himself on the trembling rocks beneath him. “ Except 
that I should scarcely think this is the best place on which 
to pass the night ! Not enough room, and too much noise ! 
What say you ? ” 

“ Oh, brave, brave, fool ! ” cried the dwarf in sudden ex- 
citement. “ Are you not afraid ? ” 

The young baronet’s keen eyes glanced him over with 
amused wonder. 

“What of?” he demanded coolly. Still nearer came 
Sigurd — nearer also came the watchful, though almost in- 
visible Lorimer. 

“ Look down there ! ” continued Sigurd in shrill tones, 
pointing to the foaming gulf. “ Look at the Elf-danz — 
see the beautiful spirits with the long pale green hair and 
glittering wings I See how they beckon, beckon, beckon 1 
They want some one to join them — look how their white 
arms wave, — they throw back their golden veils and smile 
at us I They call to you — you with the strong figure and 
the proud eyes — why do you not go to them ? They will 
kiss and caress you— they have sweet lips and snow-white 
bosoms, — they will love you and take care of you — they 
are as fair as Thelma ! ” 

“ Are they ? I doubt it 1 ” and Errington smiled dream- 
ily as he turned his head again towards the fleec}^ whirl of 
white water, and saw at once with an artist’s quick eye what 
his sick-brained companion meant by the Elf-danz the fan- 
tastic twisting, gliding shapes tossed up in the vaporous 
mist of the Fall. “ But I’ll take your word, Sigurd, with- 
out making the elves’ personal acquaintance ! Come along 
— this place is bad for you — we’ll dance with the green- 
haired nymphs another time.” 

And with a light laugh he was about to turn away, when 


THELMA. 


m 

he was surprised by a sudden, strange convulsion of Sigurd’s 
countenance — his blue eyes flashed with an almost phos- 
phorescent lustre, — his pale skin flushed deeply red, and 
the veins in his forehead started into swelled and knotted 
prominence. 

“ Another time ! ” he screamed loudly ; “ no, no I Now — 
now I Die, robber of Thelma’s love I Die — die — die I ” 

Repeating these words like quick gasps of fury, he 
twisted his meager arms tightl}^ round Errington, and 
thrust him fiercely with all his might towards the edge of 
the Fall. For one second Philip strove against him — the 
next, he closed his eyes — Thelma’s face smiled on his mind 
in that darkness as though in white farewell — the surging 
blood roared in his ears with more thunder than the terrific 
tumble of the torrent — “ God ! ” he muttered, and then — 
then he stood safe on the upper part of the rocky platform 
with Lorimer’s strong hand holding him in a vice-like 
grasp, and Lorimer’s face, pale, but looking cheerfully into 
his. For a moment he was too bewildered to speak. His 
friend loosened him and laughed rather forcedly — a slight 
tremble of his lips was observable under his fair mous- 
tache. 

“ By Jove, Phil,” he remarked in his usual nonchalant 
manner, “ that was rather a narrow shave 1 Fortunate I 
happened to be there ! ” 

Errington gazed about him confusedly. “ Where’s Si- 
gurd ? ” he asked. 

“ Gone ! Ran off like a ‘ leapin’ goat,’ as Sandy ele- 
gantly describes him. I thought at first he meant to jump 
over the Fall, in which case I should have been compelled 
to let him have his own way, as my hands were full. But 
he’s taken a safe landward direction.” 

“ Didn’t he try to push me over ? ” 

“ Exactly ! He was quite convinced that the mermaids 
wanted you. But I considered that Miss Thelma’s wishes 
had a prior claim on my regard.” 

“ Look here, old man,” said Errington suddenly, “ don’t 
jest about it ! You saved my life I ” 

“Well! ’’and Lorimer laughed. “Quite by accident, I 
assure you.” 

“ Not by accident 1 ” and Philip flushed up, looking very 
handsome and earnest. “ I believe you followed us up here 
thinking something might happen. Now didn’t you ? ” 

“ Suppose I did,” began Lormier, but he was interrupted 


7 


THE LAND OP THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


213 


by his friend, who seized his hand, and pressed it with a 
warm, close, affectionate fervor. Their eyes met — and 
Lorimer blushed as though he had performed some action 
meriting blame rather than gratitude. “ That’ll do, old 
fellow,” he said almost nervously. “ As we say in polite 
society when some one' crushes our favorite corn under his 
heel — don’t mention it I You see Sigurd is cracked, — 
there’s not the slightest doubt about that, — and he’s hardly 
accountable for his vagaries. Then I know something about 
him that perhaps you don’t. He loves your Thelma I ” 
They were making the descent of the rocks together, 
and Errington stopped short in surprise. 

“ Loves Thelma I You mean as a brother ” 

“ Oh no, I don’t ! I mean that he loves her as brothers 
often love other people’s sisters — his affection is by no 

means fraternal — if it were only that ” 

“ I see ! ” and Philip’s eyes filled with a look of grave 
compassion. “ Poor fellow I I understand his hatred of 
me now. Good Heavens I how he must suffer I I forgive 
him with all my heart. But — I say, Thelma has no idea 
of this I ” 

“ Of course not. And you’d better not tell her. What’s 
the good of making her unhappy ? ” 

“ But how did you learn it ? ” inquired Philip, with a 
look of some curiosity at his friend. 

“ Oh, 1 1 ” and Lormier laughed carelessly ; “ I was ah 
ways an observing sort of fellow — fond of putting two and 
two together and making four of them, when I wasn’t too 
exhausted and the weather wasn’t too hot for the process. 
Sigurd’s rather attached to me — indulges me with some 
specially private ravings now and then — I soon found out 
his secret, though I believe the poor little chap doesn’t 
understand his own feelings himself.” 

“ Well,” said Errington thoughtfully, “ under the cir- 
cumstances you’d better not mention this affair of the Fall 
to Guldmar. It will only vex him. Sigurd won’t try such 
a prank again.” 

“ I’m not so sure of that,” replied Lorimer ; “ but you 
know enough now to be on your guard with him.” He 
paused and looked up with a misty softness in his frank 
blue eyes — then went on in a subdued tone — “ When I saw 

you on the edge of that frightful chasm, Phil ” He 

broke off as if the recollection were too painful, and ex- 
claimed suddenly — “ Good God I if I had lost you I ” 


214 


THELMA. 


Errington clapped one hand on his shoulder. 

“Well! What if you had?” he asked almost mirth, 
fully, though there was a suspicious tremble in his ringing 
voice. 

“ I should have said with Horatio, ‘ I am more an an- 
tique Roman than a Dane,’ — and gone after you,” laughed 
Lorimer. “ And who knows what a jolly banquet we 
might not have been enjoying in the next world by this 
time ? If I believe in anything at all, I believe in a really 
agreeable heaven — nectar and ambrosia, and all that sort 
of thing, and Hebes to wait upon you.” 

As he spoke they reached the sheltering hut, where 
Guldmar, Duprez, and Macfarlane were waiting rather 
impatiently for them. 

“ Where’s Sigurd ? ” cried the honde. 

“ Gone for a ramble on his own account,” answered Er- 
rington readily. “ You know his fancies I ” 

“ I wish his fancies would leave him,” grumbled Guld- 
mar. “ He promised to light a fire and spread the meal — 
and now, who knows whither he has wandered ? ” 

“ Never mind, sir,” said Lorimer. “ Engage me as a 
kitchen-boy. I can light a fire, and can also sit beside it 
when it is properly kindled. More I cannot promise. As 
the housemaids say when they object to assist the cook, — 
it would be beneath me.” 

“ Cook ! ” cried Duprez, catching at this word. “ I can 
cook! Give me anything to broil. I will broil it I You 
have coffee — I will make it I ” And in the twinkling of an 
eye he had divested himself of his coat, turned up his cuffs, 
and manufactured the cap of a chef out of a newspaper 
which he stuck jauntily on his head. “ Behold me, mes- 
sieurs^ d votre service ! ” 

His liveliness was infectious ; they all set to work with a 
will, and in a few moments a crackling wood-fire blazed 
cheerily on the ground, and the gipsy preparations for the 
al fresco supper went on apace amid peals of laughter. 
Soon the fragrance of steaming coffee arose and mingled 
itself with the resinous odors of the surrounding pine-trees, 
— while Macfarlane distinguished himself by catching a 
fine salmon trout in a quiet nook of the rushing river, and 
this Duprez cooked in a style that would have done honor 
to a cordon bleu. They made an excellent meal, and sang 
songs in turn and told stories,— Olaf Guldmar, in particular, 
related eerie legends of the Dovrefjelde^ and many a strik- 


LAND OP THE MIDNIGST SUN. 215 

ing history of ancient origin, full of terror and superstition, 
— concerning witches, devils, and spirits both good and 
evil, who are still believed to have their abode on the Nor- 
wegian hills, — for, as the honde remarked with a smile, 
“ when civilization has driven these unearthly beings from 
every other refuge in the world, they will always be sure 
of a welcome in Norway.” 

It was eleven o’clock when they at last retired within 
the hut to rest for the night, and the errant Sigurd had not 
returned. The sun shone brilliantly, but there was no 
window to the small shed, and light and air came only 
through the door, which was left wide open. The tired 
travellers lay down on their spread-out rugs and blankets, 
and wishing each other a cheerful “ good night,” were soon 
fast asleep. Errington was rather restless, and lay awake 
for some little time, listening to the stormy discourse of 
the Fall ; but at last his eyelids yielded to the heaviness 
that oppressed them, and he sank into a light slumber. 

Meanwhile the imperial sun rode majestically downwards 
to the edge of the horizon, — and the sky blushed into the 
pale tint of a wild rose, that deepened softly and steadily 
with an ever-increasing fiery brillance as the minutes glided 
noiselessly on to the enchanted midnight hour. A wind 
began to rustle mysteriously among the pines — then grad- 
ually growing wrathful, strove to whistle a loud defiance 
to the roar of the tumbling waters. Through the little 
nooks and crannies of the roughly constructed cabin, where 
the travellers slept, it uttered small wild shrieks of warn- 
ing or dismay — and, suddenly, as though touched by an in- 
visible hand. Sir Philip awoke. A crimson glare streaming 
through the open door dazzled his drowsy eyes — was it a 
forest on fire ? He started up in dreamy alarm, — then re- 
membered where he was. Realizing that there must be an 
exceptionally fine sky to cast so ruddy a refiection on the 
ground, he threw on his cloak and went outside. 

What a wondrous, almost unearthly scene greeted him 1 
His first impulse was to shout aloud in sheer ecstasy — his 
next to stand silent in reverential awe. The great Fall 
was no longer a sweeping flow of white foam — it had 
changed to a sparkling shower of rubies, as though some 
great genie, tired of his treasures, were flinging them away 
by giant handfuls, in the most reckless haste and lavish 
abundance. From the bottom of the cascade a crimson 
vapor arose, like smoke from flame, and the whirling 


THELMA. 


m 

rapids, deeply red for the most part, darkened here and 
there into an olive-green flecked with gold, while the spray, 
tossed high over interrupting rocks and boulders, glittered 
as it fell like small fragments of broken opal. The sky 
was of one dense uniform rose-color from west to east, — . 
soft and shimmering as a broad satin pavilion freshly un- 
rolled, — the sun was invisible, hidden behind the adjacent 
mountains, but his rays touched some peaks in the dis- 
tance, on which white wreaths of snow lay, bringing them 
into near and sparkling prominence. 

The whole landscape was transformed — the tall trees, 
rustling and swaying in the now boisterous wind, took all 
flickering tints of color on their trunks and leaves, — ^the 
grey stones and pebbles turned to lumps of gold and heaps 
of diamonds, and on the other side of the rapids, a large 
tuft of heather in a cleft of the rocks glowed with extraor- 
dinary vividness and warmth, like a suddenly kindled Are. 
A troop of witches dancing wildly on the sward, — a ring 
of fairies, — kelpies tripping from crag to crag,— a sudden 
chorus of sweet-voiced water-nymphs — nothing unreal or 
fantastical would have surprised Errington at that mo- 
ment. Indeed, he almost expected something of the kind 
— the scene was so eminently fitted for it. 

“ Positively, I must wake Lorimer,” he thought to him- 
self. “ He oughtn’t to miss such a gorgeous spectacle as 
this.” 

He moved a little more in position to view the Fall. 
What was that small dark object running swiftly yet 
steadily along on the highest summit of those jutting 
crags ? He rubbed his e3"es amazedly — was it — could it be 
Sigurd^ He watched it for a moment, — then uttered a 
loud cry as he saw it pause on the very ledge of rock from 
which but a short while since, he himself had been so 
nearly precipitated. The figure was now distinctly visible, 
outlined in black against the flaming crimson of the sky, — 
it stood upright and waved its arms with a frantic gesture. 
There was no mistaking it — it was Sigurd ! 

Without another second’s hesitation Errington rushed 
back to the hut and awoke, with clamorous alarm, the rest 
of the party. His brief explanation sufficed — they all 
hurried forth in startled excitement. Sigurd still occupied 
his hazardous position, and as they looked at him he 
seemed to dance wildly nearer the extreme edge of the 
rocky platform. Old Griildmar turned pale. “ The gods 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


217 


preserve him I ” he muttered in his beard — then turning he 
began resolutely to make the ascent of the rocks with long, 
rapid strides — the young men followed him eager and 
almost breathless, each and all bent upon saving Sigurd 
from the danger in which he stood, and trying by different 
ways to get more quickly near the unfortunate lad and call, 
or draw him back by force from his point of imminent 
deadly peril. They were more than half-way up, when a 
piercing cry rang clearly above the thunderous din of the 
fall — a cry that made them pause for a moment. 

Sigurd had caught sight of the figures advancing to his 
rescue, and was waving them back with eloquent gesture of 
anger and defiance. His small misshapen body was alive 
with wrath, — it seemed as though he were some dwarf king 
ruling over the glittering crimson torrent, and grimly for- 
bidding strangers to enter on the boundaries of his magic 
territory. They, however, pressed on with renewed haste, 
— and they had nearly reached the summit when another 
shrill cry echoed over the sunset-colored foam. 

Once more they paused they were in full view of the 
distraught Sigurd, and he turned his head towards them, 
shaking back his long fair hair with his old favorite gesture 
and laughing in apparent glee. Then he suddenly raised 
his arms, and, clasping his hands together, poised himself 
as though he were some winged thing about to fly. 

“ Sigurd ! Sigurd I ” shouted Guldmar, his strong voice 
tremulous with anguish. “ Come back 1 come back to 
Thelma I ” 

At the sound of that beloved name, the unhappy creature 
seemed to hesitate, and, profiting by that instant of irresolu- 
tion, Errington and Lorimer rushed forward Too late ! 

Sigurd saw them coming, and glided with stealthy caution 
to the very brink of the torrent, where there was scarce!} 
any foothold — there he looked back at his would-be rescuers 
with an air of mystery and cunning, and broke into a loud 
derisive laugh. 

Then — still with clasped hands and smiling face — un- 
heeding the shout of horror that broke from those who be- 
held him — he leaped, and fell ! Down, down into the roar- 
ing abyss I For one half-second — one lightning flash — his 
twisted figure, like a slight black speck w^as seen against 
the wide roseate glory of the tumbling cascade — then it dis- 
appeared, engulfed and lost for ever ! Gone, — with all his 
wild poet fancies and wandering dreams — gone, with his 


THELMA. 


m 

unspoken love and unguessed sorrows — gone where dark 
things shall be made light,— and where the broken or 
tangled chain of the soul’s intelligence shall be inended and 
made perfect by the tender hands of the All-Wise and the 
All-Loving One, whose ways are too gloriously vast for our 
finite comprehension. 

“ Gone, mistress I ” as he would have said to the innocent 
cause of his heart’s anguish. “ Gone where I shall grow 
straight and strong and brave I Mistress, if you meet me 
in Yalhalla, you will love me 1 ” 


CHAPTER XYIL 

“ Do not, I pray you, think evilly of so holy a man ! He has a 
sore combat against the flesh and the devil ! ” — The Maid of Honor. 

The horror-stricken spectators of the catastrophe stood 
for a minute inert and speechless, — stupefied by its sudden- 
ness and awful rapidity. Then with one accord they hur- 
ried down to the level shore of the torrent, moved by the 
unanimous idea that they might possibly succeed in rescuing 
Sigurd’s frail corpse from the sharp teeth of the jagged 
rocks, that, piercing upwards through the foam of the roar- 
ing rapids, were certain to bruise, tear, and disfigure it be- 
yond all recognition. But even this small satisfaction was 
denied them. There was no sign of a floating or struggling 
body anywhere visible. And while they kept an eager 
look-out, the light in the heavens slowl}^ changed. From 
burning crimson it softened to a tender amethyst hue, as 
smooth and delicate as the glossy pale tint of the purple 
clematis, — and with it the rosy foam of the Fall graduated 
to varying tints of pink, from pink to tender green, and 
lastly, it became as a shower of amber wine. Giildmar 
spoke first in a voice broken by deep emotion. 

“ ’Tis all over with him, poor lad I ” he said, and tears 
glittered thickly in his keen old eyes. “ And — though the 
gods, of a surety, know best — this is an end I looked not 
for ! A mournful home-returning shall we have — for how 
to break the news to Thelma is more than I can tell ! ” 

And he shook his head sorrowfully while returning the 
warm and sympathizing pressure of Errington’s hand. 

“ You see,” he went on, with a wistful look at the grave 
and compassionate face of his accepted son-in-law — “ the boy 
was no boy of mine, ’tis true — and the winds had more than 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


219 

their share of his wits — yet — we knew him from a baby — 
and my wife loved him for his sad estate, which he was not 

to blame for. Thelma, too — he was her first playmate ” 

The bonde could trust himself to say no more, but turned 
abruptly away, brushing one hand across his eyes, and was 
silent for many minutes. The young men, too, were si- 
lent, — Sigurd’s determined suicide had chilled and sickened 
them. Slowly the}^ returned to the hut to pass the re- 
maining hours of the night — though sleep was, of course, 
after what they had witnessed, impossible. They remained 
awake, therefore, talking in low tones of the fatal event, 
and listening to the solemn sough of the wind through the 
pines, that sounded to Errington’s ears like a monotonous 
forest dirge. He thought of the first time he had ever seen 
the unhappy creature whose wandering days had just 
ended, — of that scene in the mysterious shell cavern, — of 
the wild words he had then uttered — how strangely they 
came back to Philip’s memory now I 

“ You have come as a thief in the golden midnight, and 
the thing you seek is the life of Sigurd 1 Yes — yes 1 it is 
true — the spirit cannot lie ! You must kill, you must 
steal — see how the blood drips, drop by drop, from the 
heart of Sigurd I and the jewel you steal, — ah I what a 
jewel I You shall not find such another in Norway I” 
Was not the hidden meaning of these incoherent phrases 
rendered somewhat clear now ? though how the poor lad’s 
disordered imagination had been able thus promptly to con- 
jure up with such correctness, an idea of Errington’s future 
relations with Thelma, was a riddle impossible of explana- 
tion. He thought, too, with a sort of generous remorse, of 
that occasion when Sigurd had visited him on board the 
yacht to implore him to leave the AltenQord. He realized 
everything, — the inchoate desires of the desolate being, 
who, though intensely" capable of loving, felt himself in a 
dim, sad way, unworthy of love, — the struggling passions 
in him that clamr)red for utterance — the instinctive dread 
and jealousy of a rival, while knowing that he was both 
physically and mentally unfitted to compete with one, — all 
these things passed through Philip’s mind, and filled him 
with a most profound pity for the hidden sufferings, the 
tortures and inexplicable emotions which had racked Si- 
gurd’s darkened soul. And, still busy with these reflec- 
tions, he turned on his arm as he lay, and whispered softly 
to his friend who was close by him — 


220 


THELMA, 


I say, Lorimer, — I feel as if I had been to blame some- 
how in this affair I If I had never come on the scene, Si- 
gurd would still have been happy in his own way.” 

Lorimer was silent. After a pause, Errington went on 
still in the same low tone. 

“ Poor little fellow I Do you know, I can’t imagine any- 
thing more utterly distracting than having to see such a 
woman as Thelma day after day, — loving her all the time, 
and knowing such love to be absolutely hopeless 1 Why, it 
was enough to make him crazier than ever I ” 

Lorimer moved restlessly. “Yes, it must have been 
hard on him I ” he answered at last, in a gentle, somewhat 
sad tone. “ Perhaps it’s as well he’s out of it all. Life is 
infinitely perplexing to many of us. By this time he’s no 
doubt wiser than you or I, Phil, — he could tell us the rea- 
son why love is such a blessing to some men, and such a 
curse to others I ” 

Errington made no answer, and they relapsed into si- 
lence — silence which was almost unbroken save by an oc- 
casional deep sigh from Olaf Giildmar and a smothered ex- 
clamation such as, “ Poor lad, poor lad 1 Who would have 
thought it ? ” 

With the early dawn they were all up and ready for the 
homeward journey, — though with very different feelings to 
those with which they had started on their expedition. 
The morning was dazzlingly bright and clear, — and the cat- 
aract of Njedegorze rolled down in glittering folds of creamy 
white and green, uttering its ceaseless psalm of praise to 
the Creator in a jubilant roar of musical thunder. They 
paused and looked at it for the last time before leaving, — it 
had assumed for them a new and solemn aspect — it was 
Sigurd’s grave. The honde raised his cap from his rough 
white hair, — instinctively the others followed his example. 

“ May the gods grant him good rest I ” said the old man 
reverently. “ In the wildest waters they say there is a 
calm underflow, — maybe the lad has found it and is glad to 
sleep.” He paused and stretched his hands forth with an 
eloquent and touching gesture. “ Peace be with him 1 ” 

Then, without more words, and as though disdaining his 
own emotion, he turned abruptly away, and began to de- 
scend the stony and precipitous hill, up which Sigurd had 
so skillfully guided them the day before. Macfarlane and 
Duprfez followed him close, — Macfarlane casting more than 
once a keen look over the rapids. 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 221 

“ ’Tis a pity we couldna find his body,” he said in a low 
tone. 

Duprfez shrugged his shoulders. Sigurd’s death had 
shocked him considerably by its suddenness, but he was 
too much of a volatile Frenchman to be morbidly anxious 
about securing the corpse. 

“ 1 think not so at all,” he said. “ Of what use would it 
be ? To grieve mademoiselle ? to make her cry ? That 
would be cruel, — I would not assist in it 1 A dead body is 
not a sight for ladies, — believe me, things are best as they 
are.” 

They went on, while Errington and Lorimer lingered yet 
a moment longer. 

“ A magnificent sepulchre ! ” said Lorimer, dreamily eye- 
ing for the last time the sweeping flow of the glittering 
torrent. “ Better than all the monuments ever erected I 
Upon my life, I would not mind having such a grave my- 
self I Say what you like, Phil, there was something grand 
in Sigurd’s choice of a death. We all of us have to get out 
of life somehow one day — that’s certain — but few of us have 
the chance of making such a triumphant exit I ” 

Errington looked at him with a grave smile. “ How you 
talk, George I ” he said half-reproachfully. “ One would 
think you envied the end of that unfortunate, half-witted 
fellow 1 You’ve no reason to be tired of your life, I’m sure, 
— all your bright days are before you.” 

“ Are they ? ” And Lorimer’s blue eyes looked slightl}^ 
melancholy. “ Well, I dare say they are I Let’s hope so 
at all events. There need be something before me, — there 
isn’t much behind except wasted opportunities. Come on, 
Phil ! ” 

They resumed their walk, and soon rejoined the others. 
The journey back to the Altenflord was continued all day 
with but one or two interruptions for rest and refreshment. 
It was decided that on reaching home, old Guldmar should 
proceed a little in advance, in order to see his daughter 
alone first, and break to her the news of the tragic event 
that had occurred, — so that when, after a long and toilsome 
journey, they caught sight, at about eight in the evening, 
of the familiar farmhouse through the branches of the 
trees that surrounded and sheltered it, they all came to a 
halt. 

The young men seated themselves on a pleasant knoll 
under some tall pines, there to wait a quarter of an hour or 


222 


THELMA. 


SO, while the honde went forward to prepare Thelma. On 
second thoughts, the old man asked Errington to accom- 
pany him, — a request to which he very readily acceded, 
and these two, leaving the others to follow at their leisure, 
went on their way rapidly. They arrived at, and entered 
the garden, — their footsteps made a crunching noise on the 
pebbly path, — but no welcoming face looked forth from any 
of the windows of the house. The entrance door stood 
wide open, — there was not a living soul to be seen but the 
kitten asleep in a corner of the porch, and the doves 
drowsing on the roof in the sunshine. The deserted 
air of the place was unmistakable, and Giildmar and Er- 
rington exchanged looks of wonder not unmixed with 
alarm. 

“ Thelma I Thelma ! ” called the honde anxiously. There 
was no response. He entered the house and threw open the 
kitchen door. There was no fire, — and not the slightest sign 
of any of the usual preparations for supper. 

“ Britta I ” shouted Giildmar. Still no answer. “ By the 
gods I ” he exclaimed, turning to the astonished Philip, 
“this is a strange thing I Where can the girls be? I 
have never known both of them to be absent from the 
house at the same time. Go down to the shore, my lad, 
and see if Thelma’s boat is missing, while I search the 
garden.” 

Errington obeyed — hurrying off on his errand with a 
heart beating fast from sudden fear and anxiety. For he 
knew Thelma was was not likely to have gone out of her 
own accord, at the very time she would have naturally ex- 
pected her father and his friends back, and the absence of 
Britta too, was, to say the least of it, extraordinary. He 
reached the pier very speedily, and saw at a glance that the 
boat was gone. He hastened back to report this to Giild- 
mar, who was making the whole place resound with his 
shouts of “ Thelma I ” and “ Britta I ” though he shouted 
altogether in vain. 

“ Maybe,” he said dubiously, on hearing of the missing 
boat — “ Maybe the child has gone on the Fjord — ’tis often 
her custom,— but, then, where is Britta? Besides, they 
must have expected us — they would have prepared supper 
— they would have been watching for our return. No, 
no I there is something wrong about this — ’tis altogether 
unusual.” 

And he looked about him in a bewildered way, while Sir 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 223 

Philip, noting his uneasiness, grew more and more uneasy 
himself. 

“ Let me go and search for them, sir,” he said, ea- 
gerly. “ They may be in the woods, or up towards the 
orchard.” 

Guldmar shook his head and drew his fuzzy white brows 
together in puzzled meditation— suddenly he started and 
struck his stalf forcibly on the ground. 

“ I have it I ” he exclaimed. “ That old hag Lovisa is at 
the bottom of this I ” 

“ By Jove I ” cried Errington. “ I believe vou’re right ! 
What shall we do ? ” 

At that moment, Lorimer, Duprez, and Macfarlane came 
on the scene, thinking they had kept aloft long enough, — 
and the strange disappearance of the two girls was rapidly 
explained to them. They listened astonished and almost 
incredulous, but agreed with the bonde as to Lovisa’s prob- 
able share in the matter. 

“ Look here I ” said Lorimer excitedlj^ “ I’m not in the 
least tired, — show me the way to Talvig, where that old 
screech-owl lives, and I’ll go there straight as a gun I 
Shouldn’t wonder if she has not forced away her grand- 
child, in which case Miss Thelma may have gone after 
her.” 

“ I’ll come with you ! ” said Errington. “ Let’s lose no 
time about it.” 

But Guldmar shook his head. “ ’Tis a long way, my 
lads, — and you do not know the road. No — ’twill be better 
we should take the boat and pull over to Bosekop ; there 
we can get a carriole to take two of us at least to Tai 
vig ” 

He stopped, interrupted by Macfarlane, who looked par- 
ticularly shrewd. 

“ I should certainly advise ye to try Boskop first,” he re- 
marked cautiously. “ Mr. Dyceworthy might be able to 
provide ye with valuable information.” 

“ Dyceworthy ! ” roared the bonde^ becomming inflamma- 
ble at once. “ He knows little of me or mine, thank the 
gods I and I would not by choice step within a mile of his 
dwelling. What makes you think of him, sir ? ” 

Lorimer laid a hand soothingly on his arm. 

“ Now, my dear Mr. Guldmar, don’t get excited 1 Mac is 
right. I dare say Dyceworthy knows as much in his way 

the ancient Lovisa. At any rate, it isn’t his fault if he 


224 


THELMA. 


does not. Because you see ” Lorimer hesitated and 

turned to Errington. “ You tell him, Phil I you know all 
about it.” 

“ The fact is,” said Errington, while Guldmar gazed from 
one to the other in speechless amazement, “ Thelma hasn’t 
told you because she knew how angry you’d be — but Dj^ce- 
worthy asked her to marry him. Of course she refused 
him, and I doubt if he’s taken his rejection very resign- 
edly.” 

The face of the old farmer as he heard these words was a 
study. Wonder, contempt, pride, and indignation struggled 
for the mastery on his rugged features. 

“ Asked — her — to — marry — him I ” he repeated slowly. 
“ By the sword of Odin I Had I known it I would have 
throttled him I ” His eyes blazed and he clenched his hand. 
* Throttled him, lads! I would ! Give me the chance and 
I’ll do it now 1 I tell you, the mere look of such a man as 
that is a desecration to my child, — liar and hypocrite as he 
is I may the gods confound him I ” He paused — then sud- 
denly bracing himself up, added. “ I’ll away to Bosekop 
at once — they’ve been afraid of me there for no reason — 
I’ll teach them to be afraid of me in earnest I Who’ll come 
with me ? ” 

All eagerly expressed their desire to accompany him 
with the exception of one, — Pierre Duprez, — he had disap- 
peared. 

“ Why, where has he gone ? ” demanded Lorimer in some 
surprise. 

“ I canna tell,” replied Macfarlane. “ He just slipped 
awa’ while ye were haverin’ about Dyceworthy — he’ll maybe 
join us at the shore.” 

To the shore they at once betook themselves, and were 
soon busied in unmooring Guldmar ’s own rowing-boat, which, 
as it had not been used for some time, was rather a tedious 
business, — moreover they noted with concern that the tide 
was dead against them. 

Duprez did not appear, — the truth is, that he had taken 
into his head to start off for Talvig on foot without waiting 
for the others. He was fond of an adventure and here was 
one that suited him precisely — to rescue distressed damsels 
from the grasp of persecutors. He was tired, but he man- 
aged to find the road, — and he trudged on determinedly, 
humming a song of Beranger’s as he walked to keep him 
cheerful, But he had not gone much more than a mile, 


THE LAND OF TEE MIDNIGHT SUN. 22 £: 

when he discerned in the distance a carriole approaching 
him, — and approaching so swiftly that it appeared to swing 
from side to side of the road at imminent risk of upsetting 
altogether. There seemed to be one person in it — an ex- 
cited person too, who lashed the stout little pony and urged 
it on to fresh exertions with gesticulations and cries. That 
plump buxom figure — that tumbled brown hair streaming 
wildly on the breeze, — that round rosy face — why ! it was 
Britta ! Britta, driving all alone, with the reckless daring 
of a Norwegian peasant girl accustomed to the swaying, 
jolting movement of the carriole as well as the rough roads 
and sharp turnings. Nearer she came and nearer — and 
Duprez hailed her with a shout of welcome. She saw him, 
answered his call, and drove still faster, — soon she came up 
beside him, and without answering his amazed questions, 
she cried breathlessly — 

“ J ump in — jump in I We must go on as quickly as pos- 
sible to Bosekop I Quick — quick ! Oh my poor Broken ! 
The old villain I Wait till I get at him ! ” 

“ But, my leet-le child I ” expostulated Pierre, climbing 
up into the queer vehicle — “ What is all this ? I am in as- 
tonishment — I understand not at all I How comes it that 
you are run away from home, and Mademoiselle also ? ” 
Britta only waited till he was safely seated, and then 
lashed the pony with redoubled force. Away they clattered 
at a break-neck pace, the Frenchman having much ado to 
prevent himself from being jolted out again on the road. 

“ It is a wicked plot I ” she then exclaimed, panting with 
excitement — “ a wicked, wicked plot ! This afternoon Mr. 
Hyceworthy’s servant came and brought Sir Philip’s card. 
It said that he had met with an accident and had been 
brought back to Bosekop, and that he wished the Froken to 
come to him at once. Of course, the darling believed it all 
— and she grew so pale, so pale ! And she went straight 
away in her boat all by herself! Oh my dear — my dear 1 ” 
Britta gasped for breath, and Duprez soothingly placed 
an arm round her waist, an action which the little maiden 
seemed not to be aware of. She resumed her story — “ Then 
the Froken had not been gone so very long, and I was 
watching for her in the garden, when a woman passed by — 
a friend of my grandmother’s. She called out — ‘ Hey, 
Britta ! Do you know they have got your mistress down at 
Talvig, and they’ll burn her for a witch before they sleep I ’ 

‘ She has gone to Bosekop,’ I answered, ‘ so I know you tell 
■ 15 


22G 


THELMA. 


a lie.’ ^ It is no lie,’ said the old woman, ‘ old Lovisa has 
her this time for sure.’ And she laughed and went away. 
Well, I did not stop to think twice about it — I started off' 
for Talvig at once — I ran nearly all the way. I found my 
grandmother alone — I asked her if she had seen the Frdken ? 
She screamed and clapped her hands like a mad woman ! 
she said that the Froken was with Mr. Dyceworthy — Mr. 
Dyceworthy would know what to do with her I ” 

“ Sapristi I ” ejaculated Duprez. “ This is serious 1 ” 

Britta glanced anxiously at him, and went on. “ Then 
she tried to shut the doors upon me and beat me — but I 
escaped. Outside I saw a man I knew with his carriole, 
and I borrowed it of him and came back as fast as I could 
— but oh I I am so afraid — my grandmother said such dread- 
ful things I ” 

“ The others have taken a boat to Bosekop,” said Duprez, 
to re-assure her. “ They may be there by now.” 

Britta shook her head. “ The tide is against them — no ! 
we shall be there first. But,” and she looked wistfull^^ at 
Pierre, “ my grandmother said Mr. Dyceworthy had sworn 
to ruin the Froken. What did she mean, do you think ? ” 

Duprez did not answer, — he made a strange grimace and 
shrugged his shoulders. Then he seized the whip and 
lashed the pony. 

“ Faster, faster, mon chere I ” he cried to that much-as- 
tonished, well-intentioned animal. “ It is not a time to 
sleep, ma foi I ” Then to Britta — “ My little one, you shall 
see I We shall disturb the good clergyman at his peaceful 
supper — yes indeed ! Be not afraid ! ” 

And with such reassuring remarks he beguiled the rest 
of the way, which to both of them seemed unusually long, 
though it was not much past nine when they rattled into 
the little village called by courtesy a town, and came to 
a halt within a few paces of the minister’s residence. Every- 
thing was very quiet — the inhabitants of the place retired 
to rest earl}^ — and the one principal street was absolutely 
deserted. Duprez alighted. 

“ Stay you here, Britta,” he said, lightly kissing the hand 
that held the pony’s reins. “ I will make an examination 
of the windows of the house. Yes— before knocking at the 
door I You wait with patience. I will let you know every- 
thing I ” 

And with a sense of pleas iireable excitement in his mind, 
he stole softly along on tip-toe — entered the minister’s gar- 


THE LAND OF THE 3IIDNIGHT SUN 227 

den, fragrant with roses and mignonette, and then, at- 
tracted by the sound of voices, went straight up to the 
parlor window. The blind was down and he could see 
nothing, but he hera’d Mr. Dyce worthy’s bland persuasive 
tones, echoing out with a soft sonorousness, as though he 
were preaching to some refractory parishioner. He listened 
attentively. 

“ Oh strange, strange I ” said Mr. Dyceworthy. “ Strange 
that you will not see how graciously the Lord hath delivered 
you into my hands ! Yea, — and no escape is possible I For 
lo, you 3^ourself, Frbken Thelma,” Duprez started, “ you 
yourself came hither unto my dwelling, a woman all un- 
protected, to a man equally unprotected, — and who, though 
a humble minister of saving grace, is not proof against the 
offered surrender of your charms I Make the best of it, my 
sweet girl ! — make the best of it I You can never undo what 
you have done to-night.” 

“ Coward I . . . coward ! ” and Thelma’s rich low 

voice caused Pierre to almost leap forward from the place 
where he stood concealed. “ You, — you made me come 
here — you sent me that card — you dared to use the name 
of my betrothed husband, to gain your vile purpose I You 
have kept me locked in this room all these hours — and do 
you think you will not be punished ? I will let the whole 
village know of your treachery and falsehood ! ” 

Mr. Dyceworthy laughed gently. “ Dear me, dear me ! ” 
he remarked sweetly. “ How pretty we look in a passion, 
to be sure ! And we talk of our ‘ betrothed husband ’ do 
we ? Tut-tut I Put that dream out of your mind, my dear 
girl — Sir Philip Bruce-Errington will have nothing to do 
with you after your little escapade of to-night ! Your honor 
is touched ! — yes, yes ! and honor is everything to such a 
man as he. As for the ‘ card ’ you talk about, I never sent 
a card — not II” Mr. Dyceworthy made this assertion in a 
tone of injured honesty. “ Why should 1 1 No — no ! You 

came here of your own accord, — that is certain and ” 

here he spoke more slowly and with a certain malicious 
glee, “ I shall have no difficulty in proving it to be so, 
should the young man Errington ask me for an explana- 
tion I Now you Md better give me a kiss and make the 
p<^ace ! There’s not a soul in the place who will believe any- 
thing you say against me ; yow, a reputed witch, and I, a 
minister of the Gospel. For your father I care nothing, a 
poor sinful pagan can never injure a servant of the Lord. 


228 


THELMA. 


Come now, let me have that kiss! I have been very patient 
— I am sure I deserve it ! ” 

There was a sudden rushing movement in the room, and 
a slight cry. 

“ If you touch me ! ” cried Thelma, “ I will kill you ! I 
will 1 God will help me 1 ” 

Again Mr. Dyceworthy laughed sneeringly. “ God will 
help you I ” he exclaimed as though in wonder. “ As if God 
ever helped a Roman ! Froken Thelma, be Sensible. By 
your strange visit to me to-night you have ruined your 
already damaged character — I say you have ruined it, — and 
if anything remains to be said against 3^ou, I can say it — 
moreover, I will ! ” 

A crash of breaking window-glass followed these words, 
and before Mr. Dyceworthy could realize what had hap- 
pened, he was pinioned against his own wall by an active, 
wiry, excited individual, whose black eyes sparkled with 
gratified rage, whose clenched fist was dealing him severe 
thumps all over his fat body. 

“ Ha, ha 1 You will, will you I ” cried Duprez, literally 
dancing up against him and squeezing him as though he 
were a jelly. “ You will tell lies in the service of le Bon 
Dieu ? No — not quite, not yet 1 ” And still pinioning him 
with one hand, he dragged at his collar with the other till 
he succeeded, in spite of the minister’s unwieldly efforts to 
defend himself, in rolling him down upon the floor, where he 
knelt upon him in triumph. “ Yoila I Je sais faire la boxe^ 
moi I ” Then turning to Thelma, who stood an amazed 
spectator of the scene, her flushed cheeks and tear-swollen 
eyes testifying to the misery of the hours she had passed, 
he said, “ Run, Mademoiselle, run ! The little Britta is 
outside, she has a pony-car — she will drive you home. I 
will stay here till Phil-eep comes. I shall enjoy myself I I 
will begin — Phil-eep with finish ! Then we will return to 
you.” 

Thelma needed no more words, she rushed to the door, 
threw it open, and vanished like a bird in air. Britta’s joy 
at seeing her was too great for more than an exclamation of 
welcome, — and the carriole, with the two girls safely in it, 
was soon on its rapid way back to the farm. Meanwhile, 
Olaf Giildmar, with Errington and the others, had just 
landed at Bosekop after a heavy pull across the Fjord, and 
they made straight for Mr. Dyceworthy’s house, the bonde 
working himself up as he walked into a positive volcano of 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 2S9 

wrath. Finding the street-door open as it had just been 
left by the escaped Thelma, they entered, and on the thresh- 
old of the parlor, stopped abruptly, in amazement at the 
sight that presented itself. Two figures were rolling about 
on the floor, apparently in a close embrace, — one large and 
cumbrous, the other small and slight. Sometimes they 
shook each other, — sometimes they lay still, — sometimes they 
recommenced rolling. Both were perfectly silent, save that 
the larger personage seemed to breathe somewhat heavily. 
Lorimer stepped into the room to secure a better view — 
then he broke into an irrepressible laugh. 

“ It’s Duprez,” he cried, for the benefit of the others that 
stood at the door. “ By J ove 1 How did he get here, I 
wonder ? ” 

Hearing his name, Duprez looked up from that portion of 
My. Dyceworthy’s form in which he had been burrowing, 
and smiled radiantly. 

“ Ah, cher Lorimer I Put your knee here, will you ? So I 
that is well — I will rest myself I ” And he rose, smoothing 
his roughened hair with both hands, while Lorimer in 
obedience to his request, kept one knee artistically pressed 
on the recumbent figure of the minister. “ Ah ! and there 
is our Phil-eep, and Sandy, and Monsieur Guldmar ! But 
I do not think,” here he beamed all over, “ there is much 
more to be done I He is one bruise, I assure you I He will 
not preach for many Sundays ; — it is bad to be so fart — he 
will be so exceedingly suffering I ” 

Errington could not forbear smiling at Pierre’s equanimity. 

“But what has happened?” he asked. “Is Thelma 
here ? ” 

“ She was here,” answered Duprfez. “ The religious had 
decoyed her here by means of some false writing, — supposed 
to be from you. "He kept her locked up here the whole 
afternoon. When I came he was making love and fright- 
ening her, — I am pleased I was in time. But ” — and he 
smiled again — “ he is well beaten ! ” 

Sir Philip strode up to the fallen Hyceworthy, his face • 
darkening with wrath. 

“ Let him go, Lorimer,” he said sternly. Then, as the 
reverend gentleman slowly struggled to his feet, moaning 
with pain, he demanded, “ What have you to say for your- 
self, sir ? Be thankful if I do not give you the horse-whip- 
ping you deserve, you scoundrel ! ” 

“ Let me get at him ! ” vociferated Guldmar at this June- 


230 


THELMA. 


tiire, struggling to free himself from the close grasp of the 
prudent Macfarlane. “ I have longed for such a chance I 
Let me get at him ! ” 

But Lorinier assisted to restrain him from springing for- 
ward, — and the old man chafed and swore by his gods in vain. 

Mr. D^^ce worthy meanwhile meekly raised his eyes, and 
folded his hands with a sort of pious resignation. 

“ I have been set upon and cruelly abused,” he said 
mournfully, “ and there is no part of me without ache and 
soreness ! ” He sighed deeply. “But I am punished 
rightly for yielding unto carnal temptation, put before me 
in the form of the maiden who came hither unto me with 
delusive entrancements ” 

He stopped, shrinking back in alarm from the suddenly 
raised fist of the young baronet. 

“ You’d better be careful ! ” remarked Philip coolly, with 
dangerously flashing eyes ; “ there are four of us here, re- 
member ! ” 

Mr. D3^ceworthy coughed, and resumed an air of out- 
raged dignity". 

“ Truly, I am aware of it ! ” he said ; “ and it surpriseth 
me not at all that the number of the ungodly outweigheth 
that of the righteous ! Alas I ‘ why do the heathen rage 
so furiously together ? ’ Wh^^, indeed ! Except that ‘ in 

their hearts they imagine a vain thing ! ’ I pardon j^ou, 
Sir Philip, I freely pardon you ! And you also, sir,” turn- 
ing gravely to Duprez, who received his forgiveness with a 
cheerful and delighted bow. “ You can indeed injure — and 
you have injured this poor body of mine— but you cannot 
touch the soul! No, nor can ^’^ou hinder that freedom of 
speech ” — here his malignant smile was truly diabolical — 
“ which is my glory, and which shall forever be uplifted 
against all manner of evil-doers, whether they be fair 
women and witches, or misguided pagans ” 

Again he paused, rather astonished at Errington’s scorn- 
ful laugh. 

“ You low fellow ! ” said the baronet. “ From Yorkshire, 
are .you ? Well, I happen to know a good many people in 
that part of the world — and I have some influence there, 
too. Now, understand me — I’ll have you hounded out of 
the place ! You shall find it too hot to hold you — that I 
swear! Remember! I’m a man of my word! And if 
you dare to mention the name of Miss Giildmar disrespect- 
fully, I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life ! ” 


TEE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 231 

Mr. Dyceworthy blinked feebly, and drew out his hand- 
kerchief. 

“ I trust, Sir Philip,” he said mildly, “ you will recon- 
sider your words ! It would ill beseem you to strive to do 
me harm in the parish were my ministrations are welcome, 
as appealing to that portion of the people w’ho follow the 
godly Luther. Oh yes,” — and he smiled cheerfully — 
“ yon will reconsider your words. In the meantime — I — 
I ” — he stammered slightly — “ I apologize I I meant 
naught but good to the maiden — but I have been misunder- 
stood, as is ever the case with the servants of the Lord. 
Let us say no more about it I I forgive I — let us all for- 
give I I will even extend my pardon to the pagan yon- 
der ” 

But the “ pagan ” at that moment broke loose from the 
friendly grasp in which he had been hitherto held, and 
strode up to the minister, who recoiled like a beaten cur 
from the look of that fine old face flushed with just indig- 
nation, and those clear blue eyes fiery as the flash of steel. 

‘‘ Pagan, you call me I ” he cried. “ I thank the gods for 
it — I am proud of the title I I would rather be the veriest 
savage that ever knelt in untutored worship to the great 
forces of Nature, than such a thing as 3"ou — a slinking, un- 
clean animal, crawling coward-like between earth and sky, 
and daring to call itself a Christian! Faugh I Were I 
the Christ, I should sicken at sight of you ! ” 

Dyceworthy made no reply, but his little eyes glittered 
evilly. 

Errington, not desiring any further prolongation of the 
scene, managed to draw the irate honde away, saying in a 
low tone — 

u We’ve had enough of this, sir I Let us get home to 
Thelma.” 

“ I was about to suggest a move,” added Lorimer. “We 
are only wasting time here.” 

“ Ah I ” exclaimed Dupr^z radiantly — “ and Monsieur 
Dyceworthy will be glad to be in bed I He will be very 
stiff to-morrow, I am sure I Here is a lady who will at- 
tend him.” 

This with a courteous salute to the wooden-faced Dlrika, 
who suddenly confronted them in the little passage. She 
seemed surprised to see them, and spoke in a monotonous 
dreamy tone, as though she walked in her sleep. 

“ The girl has gone ? ” she added slowly. 


232 


THELMA. 


Duprez nodded briskly. “She has gone! And let me 
tell you, madame, that if it had not been for you, she would 
not have comi here at all. You took that card to her ? ” 
XJlrika frowned. “ I was compelled,” she said. “ She 
made me take it. I promised.” She turned her dull eyes 
slowly on Giildmar. “ It was Lovisa’s fault. Ask Lovisa 
about it.” She paused, and moistened her dry lips with her 
tongue. “ Where is your crazy lad ? ” she asked, almost 
anxiously. “ Did he come with you ? ” 

“ He is dead I ” answered Giildmar, with grave cold- 
ness. 

“ Dead I ” And to their utter amazement, she threw up 
her arms and burst into a fit of wild laughter. “ Dead I 
Thank God I Thank God ! Dead I And through no fault 
of mine I The Lord be praised I He was only fit for death 
— never mind how he died — it is enough that he is dead — 
dead I I shall see him no more — he cannot curse me again 1 
— the Lord be thankful for all His mercies I ” 

And her laughter ceased — she threw her apron over her 
head and broke into a passion of weeping. 

“ The woman must be crazy I ” exclaimed the thor- 
oughly mystified, — then placing his arm through Erring- 
ton’s, he said impatiently, “ You’re right, my lad I We’ve 
had enough of this. Let us shake the dust of this ac- 
cursed place off our feet and get home. I’m tired out I ” 
They left the minister’s dwelling and made straight for 
the shore, and were soon well on their journey back to the* 
farm across the Fjord. This time the tide was with them — 
the evening was magnificent, and the coolness of the breeze, 
the fresh lapping of the water against the boat, and the 
brilliant tranquility of the landscape, soon calmed their 
over-excited feelings. Thelma was waiting for them under 
the porch as usual, looking a trifle paler than her wont, 
after all the worry and fright and suspense she had under- 
gone, — but the caresses of her father and lover soon 
brought back the rosy warmth on her fair face, and restored 
the lustre to her eyes. Nothing was said about Sigurd’s 
fate just then, — when she asked for her faithful servitor, she 
was told he had “ gone wandering as usual,” and it was not 
till Errington and his friends returned to their yacht that 
old Giildmar, left alone with his daughter, broke the sad 
news to her very gently. But the shock, so unexpected 
and terrible, was almost too much for her already over- 
wrought nerves,— and such tears were shed for Sigurd as 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


233 


Sigurd himself might have noted with gratitude. Sigurd — 
the loving, devoted Sigurd — gone for ever 1 Sigurd, — 
her playmate, — her servant, — her worshiper, — dead I Ah, 
how tenderly she mourned him ! — how regretfully she 
thought of his wild words I “ Mistress, you are killing 
poor Sigurd I ” Wistfully she wondered if, in her absorb- 
ing love for Philip, she had neglected the poor crazed lad, 
— his face, in all its pale, piteous appeal, haunted her, and 
her grief for his loss was the greatest she had ever known 
since the day on which she had seen her mother sink 
into the last long sleep. Britta, too, wept and would not 
be comforted — she had been fond of Sigurd in her own im- 
petuous little way, — and it was some time before either she 
or her mistress, could calm themselves sufficiently to retire 
to rest. And long after Thelma was sleeping, with tears 
still wet on her cheeks, her father sat alone under his 
porch, lost in melancholy meditation. Now and then he 
ruffled his white hair impatiently with his hand, — his 
daughter’s adventure in Mr. Dyceworthy’s house had vexed 
his proud spirit. He knew well enough that the minister’s 
apology meant nothing — that the whole village would be set 
talking against Thelma more, even than before, — that there 
was no possibility of preventing scandal so long as Dyce- 
worthy was there to start it. He thought and thought and 
puzzled himself with probabilities — till at last, when he 
finally rose to enter his dwelling for the night, he muttered 
half-aloud. “ If it must be, it must I And the sooner the 
better now, I think, for the child’s sake.” 

The next morning Sir Philip arrived unusually early, — 
and remained shut up with the bonde, in private conversa- 
tion for more than an hour. At the expiration of that time, 
Thelma was called, and taken into their confidence. The 
result of their mysterious discussion was not immediately 
evident, — though for the next few days, the farm-house lost 
its former tranquility and became a scene of bustle and ex- 
citement. Moreover, to the astonishment of the Bosekop 
folk, the sailing-brig known as the Valkyrie^ belonging to 
Olaf Giildmar, which had been hauled up high and dry on 
the shore for many months, was suddenly seen afloat on 
the Fjord, and Valdemar Svensen, Errmgton’s pilot, ap- 
peared to be busily engaged upon her decks, putting every- 
thing in ship-shape order. It was no use asking him any 
questions — he was not the man to gratify impertinent 
curiosity. By-and-by a rumor got about in the village — 


^34 


TBilLMA. 


Lovisa had gained her point in one particular, — the Giild-* 
mars were going away — going to leave the Alten^ord I 

At first, the report was received with incredulity — but 
gained ground, as people began to notice that several pack- 
ages were being taken in boats from the farm-house to both 
the Eulalie and the Valkyrie, These preparations excited 
a great deal of interest and inquisitiveness, — but no one 
dared ask for information as to what was about to happen. 
The Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy was confined to his bed 
from a severe cold ” — as he said, and therefore was un- 
able to perform his favorite mission of spy ; — so that when, 
one brilliant morning, Bosekop was startled by the steam- 
whistle of the Eulalie blowing furiously, and echoing far 
and wide across the surrounding rocky islands, several of 
the lounging inhabitants paused on the shore, or sauntered 
down to the rickety pier, to see what was the cause of the 
clamor. Even the long-suffering minister crawled out of 
bed and applied his fat, meek visage to his window, from 
whence he could command an almost uninterrupted view of 
the glittering water. Great w^as his amazement, and dis- 
comfiture to see the magnificent yacht moving majestically 
out of the Fjord, with Guldmar’s brig in tow behind her, 
and the English flag fluttering gaily from her middle-mast, 
as she curtsied her farewell to the dark mountains, and 
glided swiftly over the little hissing waves. Had Mr. 
Dyceworthy been possessed of a field-glass, he might have 
been able to discern on her deck, the figure of a tall, fair 
girl, who, drawing her crimson hood over her rich hair, 
stood gazing with wistful, dreamy blue e^^es, at the fast re- 
ceding shores of the AltenQord — eyes that smiled and yet 
were tearful. 

“ Are you sorry, Thelma ? ” asked Errington gently, as 
he passed one arm tenderly round her. “ Sorry to trust 
your life to 'me ? ” 

She laid her little hand in playful reproach against his 
lips. 

“ Sorry 1 you foolish boy I I am glad and grateful ! 
But it is saying good-bye to one’s old life, is it not ? The 
dear old home ! — and poor Sigurd 1 ” 

Her voice trembled, and bright tears fell. 

“ Sigurd is happy,” — said Errington gravely, taking the 
hand that caressed him, and reverently kissing it. “ Be- 
lieve me, love, — if he had lived some cruel misery might 
have befallen him — it is better as it is I ” 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. ^35 

Thelma did not answer for a minute or two — then she 
said suddenly — 

“ Philip, do you remember where I saw you first ? ” 

“ Perfectly I ” he answered, looking fondly into the sweet 
upturned face. “ Outside a wonderful cavern, which 1 
afterwards explored.” 

She started and seemed surprised. “ You went inside ? 
— you saw ? ” 

“ Everything ! ’’—and Philip related his adventure of 
that morning, and his first interview with Sigurd. She 
listened attentively — then she whispered softly — 

“ My mother sleeps there, you know, — yesterday I went 
to take her some flowers for the last time. Father came 
with me — we asked her blessing. And I think she will 
give it, Philip — she must know how good you are and how 
happy I am.” 

Keystroked her silky hair tenderly and was silent. The 
Eulalie had reached the outward bend of the Altenfjord, 
and the station of Bosekop was rapidly disappearing. 
Olaf Guldmar and the others came on deck to take their 
last look of it. 

“ I shall see the old place again, I doubt not, long before 
you do, Thelma, child,” said the stout old bonde^ viewing, 
with a keen, fond glance, the stretch of the vanishing 
scenery. “ Though when once you are safe married at 
Christiania, Valdemar Svensen and I will have a fine toss 
on the seas in the Valkyrie^ — and I shall grow young again 
in the storm and drift of the foam and the dark wild waves ! 
Yes — a wandering life suits me — and I am not sorry to 
have a taste of it once more. There’s nothing like it — noth- 
ing like a broad ocean and a sweeping wind I ” 

And he lifted his cap and drew himself erect, inhaling the 
air like an old warrior scenting battle. The others listened, 
amused at his enthusiasm, — and, meanwhile, the Altenfjord 
altogether disappeared, and the Eulalie was soon plunging 
in a rougher sea. They were bound for Christiania, where 
it was decided Thelma’s marriage should at once take place 
— after which Sir Philip would leave his yacht at the dis- 
posal of his friends, for them to return in it to England. 
He himself intended to start directly for Germany with 
his bride, a trip in which Britta was to accompany them as 
Thelma’s maid. Olaf Guldmar, as he had just stated, pur- 
posed making a voyage in the Valkyrie^ as soon as he 


236 


THELMA. 


should get her properly manned and fitted, which he meant 
to do at Christiania. 

Such were their plans, — and, meanwhile, they were all 
together on the Eulalie , — a happy and sociable party, — 
Errington having resigned his cabin to the use of his fair 
betrothed, and her little maid, whose delight at the novel 
change in her life, and her escape from the persecution of 
her grandmother, was extreme. Onward they sailed, — 
past the grand Lofoden Islands and all the magnificent 
scenery extending thence to Christiansund, while the in- 
habitants of Bosekop looked in vain for their return to the 
Altenfjord. 

The short summer there was beginning to draw to a 
close, — some of the birds took their departure from the 
coast, — the dull routine of the place went on as usual, 
rendered even duller by the absence of the “ witch ” ele- 
ment of discord, — a circumstance that had kept the super- 
stitious villagers, more or less on a lively tension of re- 
ligious and resentful excitement — and by-and-by, the right- 
ful minister of Bosekop came back to his duties and re- 
leased the Reverend Charles Dyceworthy, who straightway 
returned to his loving flock in Yorkshire. It was difficult 
to ascertain whether the aged Lovisa was satisfied or 
wrathful, at the departure of the Guldmars with her grand- 
daughter Britta in their company — she kept herself almost 
buried in her hut at Talvig, and saw no one but Ulrika, 
who seemed to grow more respectably staid than ever, and 
who, as a prominent member of the Lutheran congregation, 
distinguished herself greatly by her godly bearing and un- 
compromising gloom. 

Little by little, the gossips ceased to talk about the dis- 
appearance of the “ white witch ” and her father — little by 
little they ceased to speculate as to whether the rich Eng- 
lishman, Sir Philip Errington, really meant to marry her 
— a consummation of things which none of them seemed to 
think likely — the absence of their hated neighbors, was felt 
by them as a relief, while the rumored fate of the crazy 
Sigurd was of course looked upon as evidence of fresh crime 
on the part of the “ pagan,” who was accused of having, in 
some way or other, caused the unfortunate lad’s death. 
And the old farm-house on the pine-covered knoll was shut 
up and silent, — its doors and windows safely barred against 
wind and rain, — and only the doves, left to forage for them- 
selves, crooned upon its roof all day, or strutting on the 


THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 


237 


deserted paths, ruffled their plumage in melancholj^ medi- 
tation, as though wondering at the absence of the fair 
ruling spirit of the place, whose smile had been brighter 
than the sunshine. The villagers avoided it as though it 
were haunted — the roses drooped and died untended, — and 
by degrees the old homestead grew to look like a quaint 
little picture of forgotten joys, with its deserted porch and 
fading flowers. 

Meanwhile, a thrill of amazement, incredulity, disap- 
pointment, indignation, and horror, rushed like a violent 
electric shock through the upper circles of London society, 
arousing the deepest disgust in the breasts of match-mak- 
ing matrons, and seriously ruffling the prett}" feathers of 
certain bird-like beauties who had just began to try their 
wings, and who “ had expectations.” The cause of the sen- 
sation was very simple. It was an announcement in the 
Times — under the head of “ Marriages ” — and ran as fol- 
lows : — 

“ At the English Consulate, Christiania, Sir Philip 
Bruce-Errington, Bart., to Thelma, only daughter of Olaf 
Giildmar, Bonde^ of the Altenfjord, Norway. No cards.” 




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BOOK II. 

THE LAND OF MOCKERY, 

\ CHAPTER XVIII. ' 

“ There’s nothing serious in mortality : 

All is but toys.” 

Macbeth. 

I THINK,” said Mrs. Rusli-Marvelle deliberately, laying 
down the Morning Post beside her breakfast-cup, “ I think 
his conduct is perfectly disgraceful ! ” 

Mr. Rush-Marvelle, a lean gentleman with a sallow, 
clean-shaven face and an apologetic, almost frightened man- 
ner, looked up hastily. 

“ Of whom are you speaking, my dear ? ” he inquired. 

“ Why, of that wretched young man Bruce-Errington ! 
He ought to be ashamed of himself I ” 

And Mrs. Marvelle fixed her glasses more firmly on her 
small nose, and regarded her husband almost reproachfully. 
“ Hon’t tell me, Montague, that you’ve forgotten that scan- 
dal about him I He went off last year, in the middle of 
the season, to Norway, in his yacht, with three of the very 
fastest fellows he could pick out from his acquaintance — 
regular reprobates, so I’m told — and after leading the 
most awful life out there, making love to all the peasant 
girls in the place, he married one of them, — a common 
farmer’s daughter. Don’t you remember? We saw the 
announcement of his marriage in the TimesP 

“ Ah yes, yes I ” And Mr. Rush-Marvelle smiled a pro- 
pitiatory smile, intended to soothe the evidently irritated 
feelings of his better-half, of whom he stood always in 
awe. “ Of course, of course I A very sad mesalliance. 
Yes, yes I Poor fellow 1 And is there fresh news of him ? ” 
Read that ,'"' — and the lady handed the Morning Post 
across the table, indicating by a dent of her polished fin- 
ger-nail, the paragraph that had offended her sense of social 
dignity. Mr. Marvelle read it with almost laborious care 


240 


THELMA. 


— ^though it was remarkably short and easy of comprehen- 
sion. 

“ Sir Philip and Lady Bruce-Errington have arrived at 
their house in Prince’s Gate from Errington Manor.” 

“ Well, my dear?” he inquired, with a furtive and anx- 
ious glance at his wife. “ I suppose — er — it — er — it was to 
be expected ? ” 

“ No, it was not to be expected,” said Mrs. Rush-Mar- 
velle, rearing her head, and heaving her ample bosom to and 
fro in rather a tumultuous manner. “ Of course it was to 
be expected that Bruce-Errington would behave like a fool 
— his father was a fool before him. But I sa^^ it w^as not 
to be expected that he would outrage society b}" bringing 
that common wife of his to London, and expecting us to 
receive her I The thing is perfectly scandalous I He has 
had the decency to keep away from town ever since his 
marriage — part of the time he has staid abroad, and since 
January he has been at his place in Warwickshire, — and 
this time — observe this I ” and Mrs. Marvelle looked most 
impressive — “ not a soul has been invited to the Manor — 
not a living soul I The house used to be full of people 
during the winter season — of course, now, he dare not ask 
anybody lest they should be shocked at his wife’s ignor- 
ance. That’s as clear as daylight I And now he has the 
impudence to actually bring her here, — into society ! Good 
Heavens I He must be mad 1 He will be laughed at 
wherever he goes 1 ” 

Mr. Rush-Marvelle scratched his bony chin perplexedly. 

“ It makes it a little awkward for — for you,” he re- 
marked feelingly. 

“ Awkward I It is abominable 1 ” And Mrs. Marvelle 
rose from her chair, and shook out the voluminous train of 
her silken breakfast-gown, an elaborate combination of 
crimson with grey chinchilla fur. “ I shall have to call on 
the creature — just imagine it I It is most unfortunate for 
me that I happen to be one of Bruce-Errington’s oldest 
friends — otherwise I might have passed him over in some 
way — as it is I can’t. But fancy having to meet a great 
coarse peasant woman, who, I’m certain, will only be able 
to talk about fish and whale-oil ! It is really quite dread- 
ful ! ” 

Mr. Rush-Marvelle permitted himself to smile faintly. 

“ Let us hope she will not turn out so badly,” he said 
soothingly, — “ but, you know, if she proves to be — er — a 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


241 


common person of,-- -er — a very uneducated type — you can 
always let her drop gently — quite gently ! ” 

And he waved his skinny hand with an explanatory 
flourish. 

But Mrs. Marvelle did not accept his suggestion in good 
part. 

“ You know nothing about it,” she said somewhat testily. 
“ Keep to your own business, Montague, such as it is. The 
law suits your particular form of brain — society does not. 
You would never be in society at all if it were not for me — 
now you know you wouldn’t I ” 

“ My love,” said Mr. Marvelle, with a look of meek ad- 
miration at his wife’s majestic proportions. “ I am aware 
of it ! I always do you justice. You are a remarkable 
woman ! ” 

Mrs. Marvelle smiled, somewhat mollified. “ You see,” 
she then condescended to explain — “ the whole thing is so 
extremely disappointing to me. I wanted Marcia Yan 
Clupp to go in for the Errington stakes, — it would have 
been such an excellent match, — money on both sides. And 
Marcia would have been just the girl to look after that 
place down in Warwickshire — the house is going to rack 
and ruin, in my opinion.” 

“ Ah, yes I ” agreed her husband mildly. “ Van Clupp 
is a fine girl — a very fine girl! No end of ‘go ’in her. 
And so Errington Manor needs a good deal of repairing, 
perhaps ? ” This query was put by Mr. Marvelle, with his head 
very much on one side, and his bilious eyes blinking 
drowsily. 

“ I don’t know about repairs,” replied Mrs. Marvelle. 
“ It is a magnificent place, and certainly the grounds are 
ravishing. But one or the best rooms in the house, is the 
former Lady Errington ’s boudoir — it is full of old-fashioned 
dirty furniture, and Bruce-Errington won’t have it touched, 
— he will insist on keeping it as his mother left it. Now 
that is ridiculous — perfectly morbid 1 It’s just the same 
thing with his father’s library — he won’t have that touched 
either — and the ceiling wants fresh paint, and the windows 
want new curtains — and all sorts of things ought to be done. 
Marcia would have managed all that splendidly — she’d have 
had everything new throughout — Americans are so quick, 
and there’s no nonsensical antiquated sentiment about 
Marcia.” 

“ She might even have had new pictures and done away 

16 


242 


THELMA. 


with the old ones,” observed Mr. Marvelle, with a feeble 
attempt at satire. His wife darted a keen look at him, 
but smiled a little too. She was not without a sense of 
humor. 

“ Nonsense, Montague! She knows the value of works 
of art better than many a so-called connoisseur. I won’t 
have you make fun of her. Poor girl 1 She did speculate 
on Bruce-Errington, — you know he was very attentive to 
her, at that ball I gave just before he went off to Norway.” 

“ He certainly seemed rather amused by her,” said Mr. 
Marvelle. “ Did she take it to heart when she heard he was 
married ? ” 

“ I should think not,” replied Mrs. Marvelle loftily. “ She 
has too much sense. She merely said, ‘ All right ! I must 
stick to Masherville ! ’ ” 

Mr. Marvelle nodded blandly. “ Admirable, — admirable ! ” 
he murmured, with a soft little laugh. “ A very clever girl 
— a very bright creature ! And really there are worse 
fellows than Masherville ! The title is old.” 

“ Yes, the title is all very well,” retorted his wife — “ but 
there’s no money — or at least very little.” 

“ Marcia has sufficient to cover any deficit ? ” suggested 
Mr. Marvelle, in a tone of meek inquiry. 

“ An American woman never has sufficient,” declared 
Mrs. Marvelle. “ You know that as well as I do. And 
poor dear Mrs. Yan Clupp has so set her heart on a really 
brilliant match for her girl — and I had positively promised 
she should have Bruce-Errington. It is really too bad 1 ” 
And Mrs. Marvelle paced the room with a stately, sweeping 
movement, pausing every now and then to glance at herself 
approvingly in the mirror above the chimney-piece, while 
her husband resumed his perusal ofthe Times. By-and-by 
she said abruptly — 

“ Montague 1 ” 

Mr. Marvelle dropped his paper with an alarmed air. 

“ My dear ! ” 

“ I shall go to Clara Winsleigh this morning-^and see 
what she means to do in the matter. Poor Clara I She must 
be disgusted at the whole affair 1 ” 

“ She had rather a liking for Errington, hadn't she ? ” im 
quired Mr. Marvelle, folding up the Times in a neat parcel, 
preparatory to taking it with him in order to read it in peace 
on his wa}^ to the Law Courts. 

“ Liking ? Well! ” And Mrs. MarvellCj looking at her^ 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


243 


self once more in the glass, carefully arranged the ruffle of 
Honiton lace about her massive throat, — “ It was a little 
more than liking — though, of course, her feelings were per- 
fectly proper, and all that sort of thing, — at least, I suppose 
they were 1 She had a great friendship for him, — one of 
those emotional, perfectly spiritual and innocent attach- 
ments, I believe, which are so rare in this wicked world.” 
Mrs. Marvelle sighed, then suddenly becoming practical 
again, she continued. “ Yes, I shall go there and stop to 
luncheon, and talk this thing over. Then I’ll drive on to 
the Van Clupps, and bring Marcia home to dinner. I sup- 
pose you don’t object ? ” 

“ Object I ” Mr. Marvelle made a deprecatory gesture, 
and raised his e3^es in wonder. As if he dared object to 
anjThing whatsoever that his wife desired I 

She smiled graciously as he approached, and respectfully 
kissed her smooth cool cheek, before taking his departure for 
his daily work as a lawyer in the city, and when he was 
gone, she betook herself to her own small boudoir, where 
she busied herself for more than an hour in writing letters, 
and answering invitations. 

She was, in her own line, a person of importance. She 
made it her business to know everything and everybody — 
she was fond of meddling with other people’s domestic con- 
cerns, and she had a finger in every family pie. She was, 
moreover, a regular match-maker, — fond of taking young 
ladies under her maternal wing, and “ introducing ” them to 
the proper quarters, and when, as was often the case, a dis- 
tinguished American of many dollars but no influence 
offered her three or four hundred guineas for chaperoning 
his daughter into English society and marrying her well, 
Mrs. Rush-Marvelle pocketed the douce, ur quite gracefully, 
and did her best for the girl. She was a good-looking 
woman, tall, portly, and with an air of distinction about her, 
though her features were by no means striking, and the 
smallness of her nose was out of all proportion to the 
majesty of her form — but she had a very charming smile, 
and a pleasant, taking manner, and she was universally ad- 
mired in that particular “ set ” wherein she moved. Girls 
adored her, and wrote her gushing letters, full of the most 
dulcet flatteries — married ladies on the verge of a scandal 
came to her to help them out of their difficulties — old 
dowagers, troubled with rheumatism or refractory daugh- 
ters, poured their troubles into her sympathizing ears — in 


244 


THELMA. 


short, her hands were full of other people’s business to s,u'< h 
an extent that she had scarcely any leisure to attend to her 

own. Mr. Rush-Mar velle, but why describe this gentle- 

man at all ? He was a mere nonentity — known simply as 
the husband of Mrs. Rush-Marvelle. He knew he was ncK 
body — and, unlike many men placed m a similar position, 
he was satisfied with his lot. He admired his wife intensely, 
and never failed to fiatter her vanity to the utmost excess, 
so that, on the whole, they were excellent friends, and agreed 
much better than most married people. 

It was about twelve o’clock in the day, when Mrs. Rush- 
Marvelle’s neat little brougham and pair stopped at Lord 
W insleigh’s great house in Park Lane. A gorgeous flunkey 
threw open the door with a virtuously severe expression on 
his breakfast-flushed countenance, — ^n expression which 
relaxed into a smile of condescension on seeing who the 
visitor was. 

“I suppose Lady Winsleigh is at home, Briggs?” in- 
quired Mrs. Marvelle, with the air of one familiar with the 
ways of the household. 

“ Yes’m,” replied Briggs slowlj’-, taking in the “ style ” 
of Mrs Rush-Marvelle’s bonnet, and mentally calculating its 
cost. “ Her ladyship is in the boo-dwar.” 

“ I’ll go there,” said Mrs. Marvelle, stepping into the hall, 
and beginning to w'alk across it, in her own important and 
self-assertive manner “ You needn’t announce me.” 

Briggs closed the street-door, settled his powdered wig, 
and looked after her meditatively. Then he shut up one 
eye in a sufficiently laborious manner and grinned. After 
this he retired slowly to a small ante-room, where he found 
the World with its leaves uncut. Taking up his master’s 
ivory paper-knife, he proceeded to remedy this slight incon- 
venience, — and, yawning heavily, he seated himself in a 
velvet arm-chair, and was soon absorbed m perusing the 
pages of the journal in question. 

Meanwhile Mrs. Marvelle, in her way across the great 
hall to the “ boo-dwar,” had been interrupted and nearly 
knocked down by the playful embrace of a handsome boy, 
who sprang out upon her suddenly with a shout of laughter, 
— a boy of about twelve years old, with frank, bright blue 
eyes and clustering dark curls. 

“ Hullo, Mimsey ! ” cried this young gentleman — “ here 
you are again! Do you want to see papa? Papa’s in 
there ! ” — pointing to the door from which he had emerged 


THE ZAND OF MOCKERY. 


246 


— “ he’s correcting my Latin exercise. Five good marks 
to-day, and I’m going to the circus this afternoon I Isn’t 
it jolly ? ” 

“ Dear me, Ernest I ” exclaimed Mrs. Marvelle half 
crossly, yet with an indulgent smile, — “ I wish you would 
not be so boisterous I You’ve nearly knocked my bonnet 
off.” 

“No, I haven’t,” laughed Ernest ; “ it’s as straight as — 
wait a bit ! ” And waving a lead pencil in the air, he drew 
an imaginary stroke with it. “ The middle feather is bob- 
bing up and down just on a line with your nose — it couldn’t 
be better I ” 

“ There, go along, you silly boy I ” said Mrs. Marvelle, 
amused in spite of herself. “ Get back to your lessons. 
There’ll be no circus for you if you don’t behave properly I 
I’m going to see your mother.” 

“ Mamma’s reading,” announced Ernest. “ Mudie’s cart 
has just been and brought a lot of new novels. Mamma 
wants to finish them all before night. I say, are you going 
to stop to lunch ? ” 

“ Ernest, why are you making such a noise in the pas- 
sage ? ” saixl a gentle, grave voice at this juncture. “ I am 
waiting for you, you know. You haven’t finished your 
work yet. Ah, Mrs. Marvelle ! How do you do ? ” 

And Lord Winsleigh came forward and shook hands. 
“ You will find her ladyship in, I believe. She will be de- 
lighted to see you. This young scapegrace,” here he car- 
essed his son’s clustering curls tenderl}^ — “ has not yet done 
with his lessons — the idea of the circus to-day seems to 
have turned his head.” 

“ Papa, you promised you’d let me off Yirgil this morn- 
ing 1 ” cried Ernest, slipping his arm coaxingly through his 
father’s. Lord Winsleigh smiled. Mrs. Rush-Marvelle 
shook her head with a sort of mild reproachfulness. 

“ He really ought to go to school,” she said, feigning 
severity. “ You will find him too much for you, Wins- 
leigh, in a little while.” 

“ I think not,” replied Lord Winsleigh, though an anx- 
ious look troubled for an instant the calm of his deep-set 
grey eyes. “We get on very well together, don’t we, 
Ernest ? ” The boy glanced up fondly at his father’s face 
and nodded emphatically. “ At a public-school, you see, 
the boys are educated on hard and fast lines — all ground 
down to one pattern, — there’s no cliance of any originality 


S46 


THELMA, 


possible. But don’t let me detain you, Mrs. Marvelle — you 
have no doubt much to say to Lady Winsleigh. Come, 
Ernest I If I let you off Yirgil, you must do the rest of 
your work thoroughly.” 

And with a courteous salute, the grave, kindly-faced 
nobleman re-entered his library, his young son clinging to 
his arm and pouring forth boyish confidences, which seem- 
ingly received instant attention and sympathy, — while 
Mrs. Rush-Marvelle looked after their retreating figures 
with something of doubt and wonder on her placid features. 
But whatever her thoughts, they were not made manifest 
just then. Arriving at a door draped richly with old-gold 
plush and satin, she knocked. 

“ Come in I ” cried a voice that, though sweet in tone, was 
also somewhat petulant. 

Mrs. Marvelle at once entered, and the occupant of the 
room sprang up in haste from her luxurious reading-chair, 
where she was having her long tresses brushed out by a 
prim-looking maid, and uttered an exclamation of delight. 

“ My dearest Mimsey ! ” she cried, “ this is quite too sweet 
of you I You’re just the very person I wanted to see I ” 
And she drew an easy fauteuil to the sparkling fire, — for 
the weather was cold, with that particularly cruel coldness 
common to an English May, — and dismissed her attendant. 
“ Now sit down, you dear old darling,” she continued, “and 
let me have all the news I ” 

Throwing herself back on her lounge, she laughed, and 
tossed her waving hair loose over her shoulders, as the maid 
had left it, — then she arranged, with a coquettish touch 
here and there, the folds of her pale pink dressing-gown, 
showered with delicate Valenciennes. She was undeniably 
a lovely woman. Tall and elegantly formed, with an almost 
regal grace of manner, Clara, Lady Winsleigh, deserved to 
be considered, as she was, one of the reigning beauties of 
the day. Her full dark e3’es were of a bewitching and 
dangerous softness, — her complexion was pale, but of such 
a creamy, transparent pallor as to be almost brilliant, — her 
mouth was small and exquisitely shaped. True, — her long 
eyelashes were not altogether innocent of “ kohl,” — true, 
there was a faint odor about her as of rare perfumes and 
cosmetics, — true, there was something not altogether sin- 
cere or natural even in her ravishing smile and fascinating 
ways — but few, save cynics, could reasonably dispute her 
physical perfections, or question the right she had to tempt 


TSE LAND OE MOCKEBT. 


247 


and arouse the passions of men, or to trample underfoot, 
with an air of insolent superiority, the feelings of women 
less fair and fortunate. Most of her sex envied her, — but 
Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, who was past the prime of life, and, 
who, moreover, gained her social successes through intelli- 
gence and tact alone, was far too sensible to grudge any 
woman her beauty. On the contrary, she was a franh; ad- 
mirer of handsome persons, and she surveyed Lady Wins- 
leigh now through her glasses with a smile of bland 
approval. 

“You are looking very well, Clara,” she said. “ Let me 
see — you went to Kissingen in the summer, didn’t you ? ” 

“ Of course I did,” laughed her ladyship. “ It was deli- 
cious I I suppose you know Lennie came after me there 1 
Wasn’t it ridiculous I ” 

Mrs. Marvelle coughed dubiously. “ Didn’t Winsleigh 
put in an appearance at all ? ” she asked. 

Lady Clara’s brow clouded. “ Oh yes ! For a couple of 
weeks or so. Ernest came with him, of course, and they 
rambled about together all the time. The boy enjoyed it.” 

“ I remember now,” said Mrs. Marvelle. “ But I’ve not 
seen anything of you since you came back, Clara, except 
once in the park and once at the theatre. You’ve been all 
the time at Winsleigh Court — by-the-by, was Sir Francis 
Lennox there too ? ” 

“ Why, naturally 1 ” replied the beauty, with a cool smile. 
“ He follows me everywhere like a dog 1 Poor Lennie I ” 

Again the elder lady coughed significantly. 

Clara Winsleigh broke into a ringing peal of laughter, 
and rising from her lounge, knelt beside her visitor in a 
very pretty coaxing attitude. 

“ Come, Mimsey I ’ she said, “ you are not going to be 
‘ proper ’ at this time of day I That would be a joke ! 
Darling, indulgent, good old Mimsey ! — you don’t mean to 
turn into a prim, prosy, cross Mrs. Grundy I I won’t be- 
lieve it I And you mustn’t be severe on poor Lennie — he’s 
such a docile, good boy, and really not bad-looking I ” 

Mrs. Marvelle fidgeted a little on her chair. “ I don’t 
want to talk about Lennie^ as you call him,” she said, 
rather testily — “ Only I think you’d better be careful how 
far you go with him. I came to consult you on something 
quite different. What are you going to do about the 
Bruce-Errington business? You know it was in the Pont 
to-day that they’ve arrived in town. The idea 'Sir 


248 


THELMA. 


Philip bringing his common wife into society ! — It’s too 
ridiculous ! ” 

Lady Winsleigh sprang to her feet, and her eyes flashed 
disdainfully. 

“ What am I going to do ? ” she repeated, in accents of 
bitter contempt. “ Why, receive them, of course I It will 
be the greatest punishment Bruce-Errington can have ! 
I’ll get all the best people here that I know — and he shall 
bring his peasant woman among them, and blush for her I 
It will be the greatest fun out ! Fancy a Norwegian 
farmer’s girl lumbering along with her great feet and red 
hands I . . . and, perhaps, not knowing whether to eat an 
ice with a spoon or with her fingers ! I tell you Bruce-Er- 
rington will be ready to die for shame — and serve him right 
too ! ” 

Mrs. Marvelle was rather startled at the harsh, derisive 
laughter with which her ladyship concluded her excited ob- 
servations, but she merely observed mildly — 

“ Well, then, you will leave cards ? ” 

“ Certainly ? ” 

“ Yery good — so shall I,” and Mrs. Marvelle sighed re- 
signedly. “ What must be, must be I -But it’s really 
dreadful to think of it all — I would never have believed 
Philip Errington could have so disgraced himself 1 ” 

“ He is no gentleman ! ” said Lady Winsleigh freezingly. 
“He has low tastes and low desires. He and his friend 
Lorimer are two cads^ in my opinion 1 ” 

^•Clara!’^ exclaimed Mrs. Marvelle warningly. ^^You 
were fond of him once! — now, don^t deny it!^^ 

Why should I deny it?’^ and her ladyship’s dark eyes 
blazed with concentrated fury. ^^1 loved him! There! I 
would have done anything for him! He might have trod- 
den me down under his feet! He knew it well enough — 
cold, cruel, heartless cynic as he was and is! Yes, I loved 
him! — but I hate him now!” 

And she stamped her foot to give emphasis to her wild 
words. Mrs. Marvelle raised her hands and eyes in utter 
amazement. 

Clara, Clara! Pray, pray be careful! Suppose any 
one else heard you going on in this manner! Your reputa- 
tion would suffer, I assure you! Eeally, you’re horribly 

reckless! Just think of your' husband ” 

""My husband!” and a cold gleam of satire played 
round Lady Winsleigh’s proud mouth. She paused and 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


249 


laughed a little. Then she resumed in her old careless way 
— “ You must be getting very goody-goody, Mimsey, to 
talk to me about my husband I Why don’t you read me a 
lecture on the duties of wives and the education of chil- 
dren? I am sure you know how profoundly it w^ould 
interest me I ” 

She paced up and down the room slowly while Mrs Mar- 
velle remained discreetly silent. Presently there came a 
tap at the door, and the gorgeous Briggs entered. He 
held himself like an automaton, and spoke as though re- 
peating a lesson. 

“ His lordship’s compliments, and will her la’ship lunch 
in the dining-room to-day ? ” 

‘‘ No,” said Lady Winsleigh curtly. “ Luncheon for my- 
self and Mrs. Marvelle can be sent up here.” 

Briggs still remained immovable. “ His lordship wished 
to know if Master Hernest was to come to your la’ship be- 
fore goin’ out ? ” 

“ Certainly not ! ” and Lady Winsleigh’s brows drew 
together in a frown. “ The boy is a perfect nuisance I ” 

Briggs bowed and vanished. Mrs. Rush-Marvelle grew 
more and more restless. She was a good-hearted woman, 
and there was something in the nature of Clara Winsleigh 
that, in spite of her easy-going conscience, she could not 
altogether approve of. 

“ Do you never lunch with your husband, Clara ? ” she 
asked at last. 

Lady Winsleigh looked surprised. “ Yery seldom. Only 
when there is company, and I am compelled to be present. 
A domestic meal would be too ennuyant 1 I wonder you 
can think of such a thing I And we generally dine out.” 

Mrs. Marvelle was silent again, and, when she did speak, 
it was on a less delicate matter. 

“When is your great ‘crush,’ Clara?” she inquired. 
“ You sent me a card, but I forget the date.” 

“ On the twenty-fifth,” replied Lady Winsleigh. “ This 
is the fifteenth. I shall call on Lady Bruce-Errington ” — 
here she smiled scornfully — “ this afternoon — and to-morrow 
I shall send them their invitations. My only fear is whether 
they mayn’t refuse to come. I would not miss the chance 
for the world ! I want my house to be the first in which 
her peasant-ladyship distinguishes herself by her blun- 
ders ! ” 

“ I’m afraid it’ll be quite a scandal 1 ” sighed Mrs. Rush- 


250 


THELMA. 


Marvelle. “ Quite I Such a pity ! Bruce-Errington was 
such a promising, handsome young man ! ” 

At that moment Briggs appeared again with an elegantly 
set luncheon-tray, which he placed on the table with a 
flourish. 

“ Order the carriage at half-past three,” commanded Lady 
Winsleigh. “ And tell Mrs. Marvelle’s coachman that he 
needn’t wait, — I’ll drive her home m3'self.” 

“ But, my dear Clara,” remonstrated Mrs. Marvelle, “ I 

must call at the Van Clupps’ ” 

“ I’ll call there with you. I owe them a visit. Has Mar- 
cia caught young Masherville yet ? ” 

Well,” hesitated Mrs. Marvelle, “ he is rather slippery, 
you know — so undecided and wavering I ” 

Lady Winsleigh laughed. “ Never mind that I Marcia’s 
a match for him I Rather a taking girl — only what an 
accent I My nerves are on edge whenever I hear her 
speak.” 

“ It’s a pity she can’t conquer that defect,” agreed Mrs. 
Marvelle. “ I know she has tried. But, after all, they’re 

not the best sort of Americans ” 

“ The best sort I I should think not ! But they’re of the 
richest sort, and that’s something, Mimsey I Besides, though 
everybody knows what Van Clupp’s father w^as, they make 
a good pretense at being well-born, — they don’t cram their 
low connections down your throat, as Bruce-Errington 
wants to do with his common wife. The}^ ignore all their 
vulgar belongings delightfully ! They’ve been cruelly 
‘ cut ’ by Mrs. Rippington — she’s American — but, then, 
she’s perfect style. Do you remember that big ‘ at home ’ 
at the Van Clupp’s when they had a band to play in the 
back-yard, and everybody was deafened by the noise? 
Wasn’t it quite too ridiculous ! ” 

Lady Winsleigh laughed over this reminiscence, and then 
betook herself to the consideration of lunch, — a tasty meal 
which both she and Mrs. Marvelle evidently enjoyed, flav- 
ored as it was with the high spice of scandal concerning 
their most immediate and mutual friends, who were, after 
much interesting discussion, one by one condemned as of 
“ questionable ” repute, and uncertain position. Then Lady 
Winsleigh summoned her maid, and was arra3’ed cap-d-pie 
in “ carriage-toilette,” while Mrs. Marvelle amused herself 
by searching the columns of Truth for some new tit-bit of 
immorality connected with the royalty or nobility of En- 


THE LAND OF 3I0CEERY. 


251 


gland. And at half-past three precisely, the two ladies 
drove off together in an elegant victoria drawn by a dash- 
ing pair of greys, with a respectably apoplectic coachman 
on the box, supported b3'^ the stately Briggs, in all the glory 
of the olive-green and gold liveries which distinguished the 
Winsleigli equipage. By her ladyship’s desire, they were 
driven straight to Prince’s Gate. 

“We may as well leave our cards together,” said Clara, 
with a malicious little smile, “ though I hope to goodness 
the creature won’t be at home.” 

Bruce-Errington’s town-house was a very noble-looking 
mansion — refined and simple in outer adornment, with a 
broad entrance, deep portico, and lofty windows — windows 
which fortunately were not spoilt b}’^ gaud}^ hangings of 
silk or satin in “ aesthetic ” colors. The blinds were white 
— and, what could be seen of the curtains from the outside, 
suggested the richness of falling velvets, and gold-w^oven 
tapestries. The drawing-room balconies were full of 
brilliant flowers, shaded b^’^ quaint awnings of Oriental 
pattern, thus giving the place an air of pleasant occupation 
and tasteful elegance. 

Lady Winsleigh’s carriage drew up at the door, and Briggs 
descended. 

“ Inquire if Lady Bruce-Errington is at home,” said his 
mistress. “ And if not, leave these cards.” 

Briggs received the scented glossy bits of pasteboard in 
his yellow-gloved hand with due gravity, and rang the 
bell marked “ Visitors ” in his usual ponderous manner, 
with a force that sent it clanging loudly through the corri- 
dors of the stately mansion. The door was instantly 
opened by a respectable man with grey hair and a gentle, 
kindly face, who was dressed plainly in black, and w^ho eyed 
the gorgeous Briggs wuth the faintest suspicion of a smile. 
He was Errington’s butler, and had served the family for 
twenty-five 3"ears. 

“ Her lad}^ship is driving in the Park,” he said in response 
to the condescending inquiries of Briggs. “ She left the 
house about half an hour ago.” 

Briggs thereupon handed in the cards, and forthwith re- 
ported the result of his interview to Lady Winsleigh, who 
said with some excitement — 

“ Turn into the Park and drive up and down till I give 
further orders.” 

Briggs mutely touched his hat, mounted the box, and the 


252 


THELMA. 


carriage rapidly bowled in the required direction, while 
Lady Winsleigh remarked laughingly to Mrs. Marvelle — 

“ Philip is sure to be with his treasure I If we can catch 
a glimpse of her, sitting, staring open-mouthed at every- 
thing, it will be amusing I We shall then know what to 
expect.” 

Mrs. Marvelle said nothing, though she too was more or 
less curious to see the “ peasant ” addition to the circle of 
fashionable society, — and when they entered the Park, both 
she and Lady Winsleigh kept a sharp look-out for the first 
glimpse of the quiet grey and silver of the Bruce-Erring- 
ton liveries. They watched, however, in vain — it was not 
yet the hour for the crowding of the Row — and there was 
not a sign of the particular equipage they were so desirous 
to meet. , Presently Lady Winsleigh’s face flushed — she 
laughed, and bade her coachman come to a halt. 

“ It is only Lennie,” she said in answer to Mrs. Marvelle’s 
look of inquiry. “ I must speak to him a moment I ” 

And she beckoned coquettishly to a slight, slim young 
man with a dark moustache and rather handsome features, 
who was idling along on the footpath, apparently absorbed 
in a reverie, though it was not of so deep a character that 
he failed to be aware of her ladyship’s presence — in fact he 
had seen her as soon as she appeared in the Park. He saw 
everything apparently without looking — he had lazily 
drooping eyes, but a swift under-glance which missed no 
detail of whatever was going on. He approached now with 
an excessively languid air, raising his hat slowly, as though 
the action bored him. 

“ How do, Mrs. Marvelle I ” he drawled lazily, addressing 
himself first to the elder lady, who responded somewhat 
curtly, — then leaning his arms on the carriage door, he fixed 
Lady Winsleigh with a sleepy stare of admiration. “ And 
how is our Clara ? Looking charming, as usual 1 By 
Jove! Why weren’t you here ten minutes ago? You 
never saw such a sight in your life I Thought the whole 
Row was going crazy, ’pon my soul I ” 

“Why, what happened ? ” asked Lady Winsleigh, smil- 
ing graciously upon him. “ Anything extraordinary ? ” 

“ Well, I don’t know what you’d call extraordinary ; ” 
and Sir Francis Lennox yawned and examined the handle 
of his cane attentively. “ I suppose if Helen of Troy came 
driving full pelt down the Row all of a sudden, there’d be 
some slight sensation I ” 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


253 


“ Dear me ! ” said Clara Winsleigh pettishly. “ You 
talk in enigmas to-day. What on earth do you mean ? ” 

Sir Francis condescended to smile. “ Don’t be waxy, 
Clara ! ” he urged — “ I mean what I say — a new Helen ap- 
peared here to-day, and instead of ‘ tall Troy ’ being on 
fire, as Dante Rossetti puts it, the Row was in a burning 
condition of excitement — fellows on horseback galloped the 
whole length of the Park to take a last glimpse of her — 
her carriage dashed off to Richmond after taking only four 
turns. She is simply magnificent ! ” 

“ Who is she?” and in spite of herself, Lady Winsleigh’s 
smile vanished and her lips quivered. 

“ Lady Bruce-Errington,” answered Sir Francis readily. 
“ The loveliest woman in the world, I should say ! Phil 
was beside her — he looks in splendid condition — and that 
meek old secretary fellow sat opposite — Neville — isn’t that 
his name ? Anyhow they seemed as jolly as pipers, — as for 
that woman, she’ll drive everybody out of their wits about 
her before half the season’s over.” 

“ But she’s a mere peasant! ” said Mrs. Marvelle loftily. 
“ Entirely uneducated — a low, common creature 1 ” 

“ Ah, indeed 1 ” and Sir Francis again yawned exten- 
sively. ‘‘ Well, I don’t know anything about that 1 She 
was exquisitely dressed, and she held herself like a queen. 
As for her hair — I never saw such wonderful hair, — there’s 
every shade of gold in it.” 

“ Dyed I ” said Lady Winsleigh, with a sarcastic little 
laugh. “ She’s been in Paris, — I dare say a good coiffeMr 
has done it for her there artistically I ” 

This time Sir Francis’s smile was a thoroughly amused 
one. 

“ Commend me to a woman for spite I ” he said carelessly. 
“ But I’ll not presume to contradict you, Clara ! You know 
best, I dare say ! Ta-ta 1 I’ll come for you to-night, — you 
know we’re bound for the theatre together. By-bye, Mrs. 
Marvelle ! You look younger than ever 1 ” 

And Sir Francis Lennox sauntered easily away, leaving 
the ladies to resume their journey through the Park. Lady 
Winsleigh looked vexed — Mrs. Marvelle bewildered. 

“ Do you think,” inquired this latter, “ she can really be 
so wonderfully lovely ? ” 

“ No, I don’t!” answered Clara snappishly. “I dare 
say she’s a plump creature with a high color — men like fat 
women with brick-tinted complexions — they think it’s 


254 


THELMA. 


healthy. Helen of Troy indeed I Pooh I Lennie must be 
crazy.” 

The rest of their drive was very silent, — they were both 
absorbed in their own reflections. On arriving at the Yan 
Clupps’, they found no one at home — not even Marcia — so 
Lady Winsleigh drove her “ dearest Mimsey ” back to her 
own house in Kensington, and there left her with many ex- 
pressions of tender endearment — then, returning home, 
proceeded to make ah elaborate and brilliant toilette for the 
enchantment and ediflcation of Sir Francis Lennox that 
evening. She dined alone, and was ready for her admirer 
when he called for her in his private hansom, and drove 
away with him to the theatre, where she was the cynosure 
of many eyes ; meanwhile her husband. Lord Winsleigh, 
was pressing a good-night kiss on the heated forehead of an 
excited boy, who, plunging about in his little bed and 
laughing heartily, was evidently desirous of emulating the 
gambols of the clown who had delighted him that afternoon 
at Hengler’s. 

“ Papa ! could you stand on your head and shake hands 
with your foot ? *’ demanded this young rogue, confronting 
his father with towzled curls and flushed cheeks. 

Lord Winsleigh laughed. “ Really, Ernest, I don’t think 
I could I ” he answered good-naturedly. “ Haven’t you 
talked enough about the circus by this time ? I thought 
you were ready for sleep, otherwise I should not have come 
up to say good-night.” 

Ernest studied the patient, kind features of his father 
for a moment, and then slipped penitently under the bed- 
clothes, settling his restless young head determinedly on 
the pillow. 

“ I’m all right now I ” he murmured, with a demure, 
dimpling smile. Then, with a tender upward twinkle of 
his merry blue eyes, he added, “ Good-night, papa dear I 
God bless you ! ” 

A sort of wistful pathos softened the grave lines of Lord 
Winsleigh’s countenance as he bent once more over the lit- 
tle bed, and pressed his bearded lips lightly on the boy’s 
fresh cheek, as cool and soft as a rose-leaf. 

“ God bless you, little man ! ” he answered softly, and 
there was a slight quiver in his calm voice. Then he put 
out the light and left the room, closing the door after him 
with careful noiselessness. Descending the broad stairs 
slowly, his face changed from its late look of tenderness to 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


2r)5 


one of stern and patient coldness, which was evidentl}^ its 
habitual expression. He addressed himself to Briggs, who 
was lounging aimlessly in the hall. 

“ Her ladyship is out ? ” 

“ Yes, my lord I Gone to the theayter with Sir Francis 
Lennox.” 

Lord Winsleigh turned upon him sharply. “ I did not 
ask you, Briggs, where she had gone, or who accompanied 
her. Have the goodness to answer my questions simply, 
without adding useless and unnecessary details.” 

Briggs’s mouth opened a little in amazement at his mas- 
ter’s peremptory tone, but he answered promptly — 

“ Yery good, my lord I ” 

Lord Winsleigh paused a moment, and seemed to con 
sider. Then he said — 

“ See that her ladyship’s supper is prepared in the dining- 
room. She will most probably return rather late. Should 
she inquire for me, say I am at the Carlton.” 

Again Briggs responded, “ Yery good, my lord ! ” And, 
like an exemplary servant as he was, he lingered about the 
passage while Lord Winsleigh entered his library, and, after 
remaining there some ten minutes or so, came out again in 
hat and great coat. The officious Briggs handed him his 
cane, and inquired — 

“ ’Ansom, my lord ? ” 

“ Thanks, no. I will walk.” 

It was a fine moonlight night, and Briggs stood for some 
minutes on the steps, airing his shapely calves and watch- 
ing the tall, dignified figure of his master walking, with the 
upright, stately bearing which always distinguished him, in 
the direction of Pall Mall. Park Lane was full of crowd- 
ing carriages with twinkling lights, all bound to the differ- 
ent sources of so-called “ pleasure ” by which the opening 
of the season is distinguished. Briggs surveyed the scene 
with lofty indifference, sniffed the cool breeze, and, finding 
it somewhat chilly, re-entered the house and descended to 
the servant’s hall. Here all the domestics of the Winsleigh 
household were seated at a large table loaded with hot and 
savory viands, — a table presided over by a robust and per- 
spiring lady, with a very red face and sturdy arms bare to 
the elbow. 

Lor’, Mr. Briggs I ” cried this personage, rising respect- 
fully as he approached, “ ’ow late you are! Wot ’ave you 
been a-doin’ on ? ’Ere I’ve been a-keepin’ your lamb-chops 


256 


THELMA. 


and truffles ’ot all tliis time, and if tliey’s dried up ’taint my 
fault, nor that of the hoven, which is as good a hoven as 
you can wish to bake in. . . 

She paused breathless, and Briggs smiled blandly. 

“ Now, Flopsie! ” he said in a tone of gentle severity. 
“ Excited again — as usual ! It’s bad for your ’elth — very 
bad I Hif the chops is dried, your course is plain — cook 
some morel Not that I am enn^'^ ways particular — but 
chippy meat is bad for a delicate digestion. And you would 
not make me hill, my Flopsie, would you ? ” 

Whereupon he seated himself, and looked condescend- 
ingly round the table. He was too great a personage to be 
familiar with such inferior creatures as housemaids, sculleiy- 
girls, and menials of that class, — he was onl}^ on intimate 
terms with the cook, Mrs. Flopper, or, as he called her, 
“ Flopsie,” — the coachman, and Lady Winsleigh’s own 
maid, Louise Renaud, a prim, sallow-faced Frenchwoman, 
who, by reason of her nationalit}^, was called by all the in- 
habitants of the kitchen, “ mamzelle,” as being a name both 
short, appropriate, and convenient. 

On careful examination, the laml>chops turned out satis- 
factorily — “ chippiness” was an epithet that could not 
justly be applied to them, — and Mr. Briggs began to eat 
them leisurely, flavoring them with a glass or two of fine 
port out of a decanter which he had taken the precaution to 
bring down from the dining-room sideboard. 

“ I ham late,” he then graciousl3" explained — “ not that I 
was detained in enny way by the people upstairs. The gay 
Clara went out early, but I was absorbed in the evenin’ 
papers — Winsleigh forgot to ask me for them. But he’ll 
see them at his club. He’s gone there now on foot — poor 
fellah I ” 

“ I suppose she's with the same party ? ” grinned the fat 
Flopsie, as she held a large piece of bacon dipped in vinegar 
on her fork, preparatoiy to swallowing it with a gulp. 

Briggs nodded gravely. “The same! Not a fine man 
at all, you know — no leg to speak of, and therefore no 
form. Legs — good legs — are beauty. Now, Winsleigh’s 
not bad in that particular, — and I dare say Clara can hold 
her own, — but I wouldn’t bet on little Francis.” 

Flopsie shrieked with laughter till she had a “ stitch in 
her side,” and was compelled to restrain her mirth. 

“ Lor’, Mr. Briggs 1 ” she gasped, wiping the moisture 
from her eyes, “ you are a regular one, aren’t you I Mussy 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


257 


on US, you ought to put all wot you say in the papers — 
you’d make your fortin! ” 

^ “ Maybe, maybe, Flospie,” returned Briggs with due 
dignity. I will not deny that there may be wot is called 
‘sparkle’ in my natur. And ‘sparkle’ is wot is rekwired 
in polite literatoor. Look at ‘ Hedmund ’ and ‘ ’Enery ! ’ 
Sparkle again, — read their magnificent productions, the 
World and Truth, — all sparkle, every line ! It is the secret 
of success, FlosjDie — be a sparkler and you’ve got every- 
thing before you. ” 

Louise Kenaud looked across at him half-defiantly. Her 
prim, cruel mouth hardened into a tight line. 

“ To spark-el?” she said — “ that is what we call etinceler 
— eclater. Yes, I comprehend ! Miladi is one spark-el ! 
But one must be a very good iewel to spark-el always — yes 
—yes — not a sham ! ” 

And she nodded a great many times, and ate her salad 
very fast. Briggs surveyed her with much complacency. 

“You are a talented woman, Mamzelle,” he said, “very 
talented ! I admire your ways — I really do ! ” 

Mamzelle smiled with a gratified air, and Briggs settled 
his wig, eyeing her anew with fresh interest, 

“ Wot a witness you would be in a divorce case ! ” he con- 
tinued enthusiastically. “You’d be in your helement ! ” 

“ I should — I should indeed ! ” exclaimed Mamzelle, with 
sudden excitement, — then as suddenly growing calm, she 
made a rapid gesture with her hands — ^But there will be 
no divorce. Milord Winsleigh is a fool!” 

Briggs appeared doubtful about this, and meditated for 
a long time over his third glass of port with the profound 
gravity of a philosopher. 

“No, Mamzelle,” he said at last, when he rose from the 
table to return to his duties upstairs — ‘ ‘ No I there I must 
differ from you. I am a close observer. Wotever Winsleigh’s 
faults, — and I do not deny that they are many, — he is a 
gentleman — that I must admit — and with hevery respect 
for you, Mamzelle — I can assure you he’s no fool 1 ” 

And with these words Briggs betook himself to the 
library to arrange the reading-lamp and put the room in 
order for his master’s return, and as he did so, he paused to 
look at a fine photograph of Lady Winsleigh that stood on 
the oak escritoire, opposite her husband’s arm-chair. 

“No,” he muttered to himself. “ Wotever he thinks of 
some goings-on, he ain’t blind nor deaf — that’s certain 


258 


THELMA. 


And I’d stake my character and purfessional reputation on 
it — wot ever he is, he’s no fool I ” 

For once in hi^ life, Briggs was right. He was generally 
wrong in his estimat f both persons and things — ^but it so 
happened on this particular occasion that he had formed a 
perfectly correct judgment. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

** Could you not drink her gaze like wine? 

Yet in its splendor swoon 
Into the silence languidly, 

As a tune into a tune? ” 

Dante Eossetti. 

On the morning of the twenty-fifth of May, Thelma, Lady 
Bruce-Errington, sat at breakfast with her husband in their 
sun-shiny morning-room, fragrant with flowers and melodi- 
ous with the low piping of a tame thrush in a wild gilded 
cage, who had the sweet habit of warbling his strophes to 
himself very softly now and then, before venturing to give 
them full-voiced utterance. A bright-eyed, feathered poet 
he was, and an exceeding favorite with his fair mistress, 
who occasionally leaned back in her low chair to look at 
him and murmur an encouraging “ Sweet, sweet! ” which 
caused the speckled plumage on his plump breast to ruffle 
up with suppressed emotion and gratitude. 

Philip was pretending to read the Times., but the huge, 
self-important printed sheet had not the faintest interest 
for him, — his eyes wandered over the top of its columns to 
the golden gleam of his wife’s hair, brightened just then 
by the sunlight streaming through the window, — and fi- 
nally he threw it down beside him with a laugh. 

“ There’s no news,” he declared. “ There never is any 
news ! ” 

Thelma smiled, and her deep-blue eyes sparkled. 

“No?” she half inquired — then taking her husband’s 
cup from his hand to re-fill it with coffee, she added, “ but I 
think you do not give yourself time to find the news, 
Philip. You will never read the papers more than five 
minutes.” 

“ My dear girl,” said Philip gaily, “ I am more conscien- 
tious than you are, at any rate, for you never read them 
all I ” 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY, 


259 


“ Ah, but you must remember,” she returned gravely, 
‘‘ that is because I do not understand them I I am not 
clever. They seem to me to be all about such dull things 
— unless there is some horrible murder or ruelty or acci- 
dent — and I would rather not hear of these. I do prefer 
books always — because the books last, and news is never 
certain — it may not even be true.” 

Her husband looked at her fondly ; his thoughts were ev- 
identl}^ very far away from newspapers and their contents. 

As she met his gaze, the rich color flushed her soft cheeks 
and her eyes drooped shyly under their long lashes. Love, 
with her, had not yet proved an illusion, — a bright toy to 
be snatched hastily and played with for a brief while, and 
then thrown aside as broken and worthless. It seemed to 
her a most marvellous and splendid gift of God, increasing 
each day in worth and beauty, — widening upon her soul 
and dazzling her life in ever new and expanding circles of 
glory. She felt as if she could never sufficiently under- 
stand it, — the passionate adoration Philip lavished upon 
her, filled her with a sort of innocent wonder and gratitude, 
while her own overpowering love and worship of him, some- 
times startled her by its force into a sweet shame and hesi- 
tating fear. To her mind he was all that was great, strong, 
noble, and beautiful — he was her master, her king, — and 
she loved to pay him homage by her exquisite humility, 
clinging tenderness, and complete, contented submission. 
She was neither weak nor timid, — her character, moulded 
on grand and simple lines of duty, saw the laws of Nature 
in their true light, and accepted them without question. 
It seemed to her quite clear that man was the superior, — 
woman the inferior, creature~and she could not under- 
stand the possibility of any wife not rendering instant and 
implicit obedience to her husband, even in trifles. 

Since her wedding-day no dark cloud had crossed her 
heaven of happiness, though she had been a little confused 
and bewildered at first by the wealth and dainty luxury 
with which Sir Philip had delighted to surround her. She 
had been married quietly at Christiania, arrayed in one of 
her own simple white gowns, with no ornament save a clus- 
ter of pale blush-roses, the gift of Lorimer. The ceremony 
was witnessed by her father and Errington’s friends, — and 
when it was concluded they had all gone on their several 
ways, — old Giildmar for a “ toss ” on the Bay of Biscay, — 
the yacht Eulalie^ with Lorimer, Macfarlane, and Duprea 


260 


THELMA. 


on board, back to England, where these gentlemen had sep- 
arated to their respective homes, — while Errington, with 
his beautiful bride, and Britta in demure and delighted at- 
tendance on her, went straight to Copenhagen. From 
there they travelled to Hamburg, and through Germany to 
the Schwarzwald, where they spent their honeymoon at a 
quiet little hotel in the very heart of the deep-green Forest. 

Days of delicious dreaming were these, — da3^s of roaming 
on the emerald green turf under the statel}" and odorous 
pines, listening to the dash of the waterfalls, or watching 
the crimson sunset burning redly through the darkness of 
the branches, — and in the moonlit evenings sitting under 
the trees to hear the entrancing music of a Hungarian 
string-band, which played divine and voluptuous melodies 
of the land, — “ lieder ” and “ walzer ’’ that swung the heart 
away on a golden thread of sound to a paradise too sweet 
to name! Da^^s of high ecstacy, and painfully passionate 
Joy ! — when ‘‘ love, love ! ” palpitated in the air, and 
struggled for utterance in the jubilant throats of birds, and 
whispered wild suggestions in the rustling of the leaves I 
There were times when Thelma, — lost and amazed and 
overcome by the strength and sweetness of the nectar held 
to her innocent lips by a smiling and flame-winged Ei'os ^ — 
would wonder vaguel}’' whether she lived indeed, or whether 
she were not dreaming some gorgeous dream, too brilliant 
to last ? And even when her husband’s arms most surely 
embraced her, and her husband’s kiss met hers in all the 
rapture of victorious tenderness, she would often question 
herself as to whether she were worthy- of such perfect hap- 
piness, and she would pray in the depths of her pure heart 
to be made more deserving of this great and wonderful gift 
of love — this supreme joy, almost too vast for her compre- 
hension. 

On the other hand, Errington’s passion for his wife was 
equally absorbing— she had become the very moving-spring 
of his existence. His eyes delighted in her beauty^, — but 
more than this, he revelled in and reverenced the crystal- 
clear purity and exquisite refinement of her soul. Life as- 
sumed for him a new form, — studied by the light of 
Thelma’s straightforward simplicity and intelligence, it 
was no longer, as he had once been inclined to think, a 
mere empty routine, — it was a treasure of inestimable 
value fraught with divine meanings. Graduall}^ the touch 
of modern cynicism that had at one time threatened to 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


sei 

Spoil his nature, dropped away from him like the husk 
from an ear of corn, — the world arrayed itself in bright 
and varying colors — there was good — nay, there was glory 
— in everything. 

With these ideas, and the healthy satisfaction they en- 
gendered, his heart grew light and joyous, — his eyes more 
lustrous, — his step gay and elastic, — and his whole appear- 
ance was that of man at his best, — man, as God most 
surely meant him to be — not a rebellious, feebly-repining, 
sneering wretch, ready to scoff at the very sunlight, — but 
a being both brave and intelligent, strong and equably bal- 
anced in temperament, and not only contented, but abso- 
lutely glad to be alive, — glad to feel the blood flowing 
through the veins, — glad and grateful for the gifts of 
breathing and sight. 

As each day passed, the more close and perfect grew the' 
sympathies of husband and wife, — they were like two notes 
of a perfect chord, sounding together in sweetest harmony. 
Naturall}^, much of this easy and mutual blending of char- 
acter and disposition arose from Thelma’s own gracious 
and graceful submissiveness, — submissiveness which, far 
from humiliating her, actually placed her (though she 
knew it not) on a throne of almost royal power, before 
which Sir Philip was content to kneel — an ardent worship- 
per of her womanly sweetness. Always without question 
or demur, she obeyed his wishes implicitly, — though, as 
has been, before mentioned, she was at first a little over- 
powered and startled by the evidences of his wealth, and 
did not quite know what to do with all the luxuries and 
gifts he heaped upon her. Britta’s worldly prognostica- 
tions had come true, — the simple gowns her mistress had 
worn at the Altenfjord were soon discarded for more costly 
apparel, — though Sir Philip had an affection for his wife’s 
Norwegian costumes, and in his heart thought they were 
as pretty, if not prettier, than the most perfect triumphs 
of a Parisian modiste. 

But in the social world. Fashion, the capricious deity, 
must be followed, if not wholly, yet in part ; and so 
Thelma’s straight, plain garments were laid carefully by as 
souvenirs of the old days, and were replaced by toilettes of 
the most exquisite description, — some simple, — some costly, 
— and it was difficult to say in which of them the lovely 
wearer looked her best. She herself was indifferent in the 
matter — she dressed to please Philip, — if he was satisfied, 


262 


THELBIA. 


she was happy — she sought nothing further. It was Britta 
whose merry eyes sparkled with pride and admiration 
when she saw her “ Froken ” arrayed in gleaming silk or 
sweeping velvets, with the shine of rare jewels in her rip- 
pling hair, — it was Britta who took care of all the dainty 
trifles that gradually accumulated on Thelma’s dressing- 
table, — in fact, Britta had become a very important person- 
age in her own opinion. Dressed neatly in black, with a 
coquettish muslin apron and cap becomingly frilled, she 
was a very taking little maid, with her demure rosy face 
and rebellious curls, though very different to the usual 
trained spy whose officious ministrations are deemed so 
necessary by ladies of position, whose lofty station in life 
precludes them from the luxury of brushing their own 
hair. Britta’s duties were slight — she invented most of 
them — yet she was always busy sewing, dusting, packing, 
or polishing. She was a very wide-awake little person, too, 
— no hint was lost upon her, — and she held her own wher- 
ever she went with her bright eyes and sharp tongue. 
Though secretly in an unbounded state of astonishment at 
everything new she saw, she was too wise to allow this to 
be noticed, and feigned the utmost coolness and indiffer- 
ence, even when they went from Germany to Paris, where 
the brilliancy and luxury of the shops almost took away 
her breath for sheer wonderment. 

In Paris, Thelma’s wardrobe was completed — a certain 
Madaihe Rosine, famous for “ artistic arrangements,” was 
called into requisition, and viewing with a professional eye 
the superb figure and majestic carriage of her new cus- 
tomer, rose to the occasion in all her glory, and resolved 
that Miladi Bruce-Errington’s dresses should be the wonder 
and envy of all who beheld them. 

u j^or,” said Madame, with a grand air, “ it is to do me 
justice. That form so magnificent is worth draping, — it 
will support my work to the best advantage. And persons 
without figures will hasten to me and entreat me for cos- 
tumes, and will think that if I dress them I can make them 
look as well as Miladi. And they will pay I ” — Madame 
shook her head with much shrewdness — “ Mon Dieu ! they 
will pay ! — and that they still look frightful will not be mv 
fault.” 

And undoubtedly Madame surpassed her usual skill in all 
she did for Thelma, — she took such pains, and was So suc- 
cessful in all her designs, that “ Miladi,” who did not as a 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


263 


rule show more than a very ordinary interest in her toilette, 
found it impossible not to admire the artistic taste, har- 
monious coloring, and exquisite fit of the few choice gowns 
supplied to her from the “ Maison Rosine ” — and only on 
one occasion had she any discussion with the celebrated 
modiste. This was when Madame herself, with much 
pride, brought home an evening dress of the very palest 
and tenderest sea-green silk, showered with pearls and em- 
broidered in silver, a perfect chef-d' oeuvre of the dress- 
maker’s art. The skirt, with its billowy train and peeping 
folds of delicate lace, pleased Thelma, — but she could not 
understand the bodice, and she held that very small portion 
of the costume in her hand with an air of doubt and won- 
derment. At last she turned her grave blue eyes inquir- 
ingly on Madame. 

“ It is not finished ? ” she asked. “ Where is the upper 
part of it and the sleeves ? ” 

Madame Rosine gesticulated with her hands and smiled. 

“ Miladi, there is no more ! ” she declared. “ Miladi will 
perceive it is for the evening wear — it is decolletie — it is to 
show to everybody Miladi’s most beautiful white neck and 
arms. The effect will be ravishing ! ” 

Thelma’s face grew suddenly grave — almost stern. 

“ You must be very wicked ! ” she said severely, to the in- 
finite amazement of the vivacious Rosine. “ You think I 
would show myself to people half clothed? How is it 
possible I I would not so disgrace myself! It would 
bring shame to my husband I ” 

Madame was almost speechless with surprise. What 
strange lady was this who was so dazzlingly beautiful and 
graceful, and 3^et so ignorant of the world’s ways ? She 
stared, — but was soon on the defensive. 

“ Miladi is in a little error I she said rapidly and with 
soft persuasiveness. “ It is la mode. Miladi has perhaps 
lived in a country where the fashions are different. But if 
she will ask the most amiable Sieur Bruce-Errington, she 
will find that her dress is quite in keeping with les conven- 
ances.^^ 

A pained blush crimsoned Thelma’s fair cheek. “ I do 
not like to ask my husband such a thing,” she said slowly, 
“ but I must. For I could not wear this dress without 
shame. I cannot think he would wish me to appear in it as 

you have made it— but ” She paused, and taking up 

the objectionable bodice, she added gently — “You will 


264 


THELMA. 


kindly wait here, madame, and I will see what Sir Philip 
says.” 

And she retired, leaving the modiste in a state of much 
astonishment, approaching resentment. The idea was out- 
rageous, — a woman with such divinely fair skin, — a woman 
with the bosom of a Yeniis, and arms of a shape to make 
sculptors rave, — and yet she actually wished to hide these 
beauties from the public gaze ! It was ridiculous — utterly 
ridiculous, — and Madame sat fuming impatiently, and snif- 
fing the air in wonder and scorn. Meanwhile Thelma, with 
flushing cheeks and lowered eyes, confided her difficulty to 
Philip, who surveyed the shocking little bodice she brought 
for his inspection with a gravely amused, but very tender, 
smile. 

“ There certainly doesn’t seem much of it, does there, 
darling ? ” he said. “ And so you don’t like it ? ” 

“ No,” she confessed frankl}^ — “ I think I should feel 
quite undressed in it. I often wear just a little opening at 

the throat — but this ! Still, Philip, I must not displease 

you — and I will always w'ear what you wish, even if it is 
uncomfortable to myself,” 

“ Look here, my pet,” and he encircled her waist fondly 
with his arm, “ Rosine is quite right. The thing’s per- 
fectly fashionable, — and there isn’t a woman in society who 
wouldn’t be perfectly charmed with it. But your ideas are 
better than Rosine’s and all society’s put together. Obey 
your own womanly instinct, Thelma I ” 

“ But what do you wish ? ” she asked earnestly. “ You 
must tell me. It is to please you that I live.” 

He kissed her. “ You want me to issue a command 
about the affair ? ” he said half laughingly. 

She smiled up into his eyes. “ Yes ! — and I will obey ! ” 

“Very well I Now listen!” and he held her by both 
hands, and looked with sudden gravity into her sweet face 
— “ Thelma, my wife, thus sayeth your lord and master, — 
despise the vulgar indecencies of fashion, and you will grat- 
ify me more than words can say ; — keep your pure and 
beautiful self sacred from the profaning gaze of the multi- 
tude, — sacred to me and my love for you, and I shall be the 
proudest man living! Finally,”— and he smiled again— 
“ give Rosine back this effort at a bodice, and tell her to 
make something more in keeping with the laws of health 
and modesty. And Thelma— one more kiss ! You are a 
darling 1 ” 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY, 


265 


She laughed softly and left him, returning at once to the 
irate dressmaker who waited for her. 

“ I am sorry,” she said very sweetly, “ to have called you 
wicked I You see, I did not understand I But though this 
style of dress is fashionable, I do not wish to wear it — so 
you will please make me another bodice, with a small open 
square at the throat, and elbow-sleeves, — and you will lose 
nothing at all — for I shall pay you for this one just the 
same. And you must quite pardon me for my mistake and 
hasty words ! ” 

Maladi’s manner was so gracious and winning, that 
Madame Rosine found it impossible not to smile in a 
soothed and mollified way, — and though she deeply regret- 
ted that so beautiful a neck and arms were not to be ex- 
posed to public criticism, she resigned herself to the inevi- 
table, and took away the offending bodice, replacing it in a 
couple of days by one much prettier and more becoming by 
reason of its perfect modesty. 

On leaving Paris, Sir Philip had taken his wife straight 
home to his fine old Manor in Warwickshire. Thelma’s de- 
light in her new abode was unbounded — the stately oaks 
that surrounded it,— the rose-gardens, the conservatories, — 
the grand rooms, with their fine tapestries, oak furniture, 
and rare pictures, — the splendid library, the long, lofty 
drawing-rooms, furnished and decorated after the style of 
Louis Quinze, — all filled her with a tender pride and wist- 
ful admiration. This was Philip’s home I and she was here 
to make it bright and glad for him I — she could imagine no 
fairer fate. The old servants of the place welcomed their 
new mistress with marked respect and evident astonishment 
at her beauty, though, when they knew her better, they 
marvelled still more at her exceeding gentleness and cour- 
tesy. The housekeeper, a stately white-haired dame, who 
had served the former Lady Errington, declared she was 
“ an angel ” — while the butler swore profoundly that “ he 
knew what a queen was like at last ! ” 

The whole household was pervaded with an affectionate 
eagerness to please her, though, perhaps, the one most daz- 
zled by her entrancing smile and sweet consideration for his 
comfort was Edward Neville, Sir Philip’s private secre- 
tary and librarian, — a meek, mild-featured man of some five 
and forty years old, whose stooping shoulders, grizzled hair, 
and weak eyes gave him an appearance of much greater 
age. Thelma was particularly kind to Neville, having heard 


266 


THELMA. 


his history from her husband. It was brief and sad. He had 
married a pretty 3'Oiing girl whom he had found earning a 
bare subsistence as a singer in provincial music-halls, — 
loving her, he had pitied her unprotected state, and had res- 
cued her from the life she led — but after six months of com- 
parative happiness, she had suddenly deserted him, leaving 
no clue as to where or wh^^ she had gone. His grief for her 
loss, weighed heavil}’’ upon his mind — he brooded incessantly 
upon it — and though his profession was that of a music- 
master and organist, he grew so abstracted and inattentive 
to the claims of the few pupils he had, that they fell away 
from him one by one — and, after a bit, he lost his post as 
organist to the village church as well. This smote him 
deepl}^, for he was passionatel}^ fond of music, and was, 
moreover, a fine player, — and it was at this stage of his mis- 
fortunes that he met by chance Bruce-Errington. Philip, 
just then, was almost broken-hearted — his father and mother 
had died suddenly within a week of one another, — and he, 
finding the blank desolation of his home unbearable, was 
anxious to travel abroad for a time, so soon as he could find 
some responsible person in whose hands to leave the charge 
of the Manor, with its invaluable books and pictures, during 
his absence. 

Hearing Neville’s history through a mutual friend, he 
decided, with his usual characteristic impulse, that here was 
the ver}" man for him — a gentleman by birth, rumored to be 
an excellent scholar, — and he at once offered him the post 
he had in view, — that of private secretary at a salary of 
£200 per annum. The astonished Neville could not at first 
believe in his good fortune, and began to stammer forth his 
gratitude with trembling lips and moistening eyes, — but 
Errington cut him short by declaring the whole thing set- 
tled, and desiring him to enter on his duties at once. He 
was forthwith installed in his position, — a highly enviable 
one for a man of his dream^^ and meditative turn of mind. 
To him, literature and music were precious as air and light, 
he handled the rare volumes on the Errington book-shelves 
with lingering tenderness, and often pored over some diffi- 
cult manuscript, or dusty folio till long past midnight, al- 
most forgetful of his griefs in the enchantment thus engen- 
dered. Nor did he lack his supreme comforter, music, — 
there was a fine organ at the lower end of the long library, 
and seated at his beloved instrument, he wiled away many 
an hour, — steeping his soul in the divine and solemn melo- 


THE LAHH OP MOGREBY, 


dies of Palestrina and Pergolesi, till the cruel sorrow that 
had darkened his life seemed nothing but a bad dream, and 
the face of his wife as he had first known it, fair, trustful, 
and plaintive, floated before his eyes unchanged, and arous- 
ing in him the old foolish throbbing emotions of rapture 
and passion that had gladdened the bygone days. 

He never lost the hope of meeting her again, and from 
time to time he renewed his search for her, though all use- 
lessly — he studied the daily papers with an almost morbid 
anxiety lest he should see the notice of her death — and he 
would even await each post with a heart beating more rap- 
idly than usual, in case there should be some letter from 
her, imploring forgiveness, explaining eA’'er3dhing, and sum- 
moning him once more to her side. He found a true and 
keenly sympathizing friend in Sir Philip, to whom he be- 
came profoundly attached, — to satisfy his wishes, to for- 
ward his interests, to attend to his affairs with punctilious 
exactitude — all this gave Neville the supremest happiness. 
He felt some slight doubt and anxietj^, when he first re- 
ceived the sudden announcement of his patron’s marriage, 
— but all forebodings as to the character and disposition of 
the new Lady Bruce-Errington fled like mist before sun- 
shine, when he saw Thelma’s fair face and felt her friendly 
hand-clasp. 

Eveiy morning on her way to the breakfast-room, she 
would look in at the door of his little study, which adjoined 
the library, and he learned to watch for the first glimmer of 
her dress, and to listen for her bright “ Good morning, Mr. 
Neville I ” with a sensation of the keenest pleasure. It was 
a sort of benediction on the whole day. A proud man was 
he when she asked him to give her lessons on the organ, — 
and never did he forget the first time he heard her sing. 
He was pla^dng an exquisite “ Ave Maria,” hy Stradella, 
and she, standing by her husband’s side was listening, when 
she suddenly exclaimed — 

“ Why, we used to sing that at Arles ! ” — and her rich, 
round voice pealed forth clear, solemn, and sweet, following 
with pure steadiness the sustained notes of the organ. 
Neville’s heart thrilled, — he heard her with a sort of breath- 
less wonder and rapture, and when she ceased, it seemed as 
though heaven had closed upon him. 

“ One cannot praise such a voice as that ! ” he said. “ It 
would be a kind of sacrilege. It is divine I ” 

After this, many were the pleasant musical evenings they 


2G8 


THELMA. 


all passed together in the grand old library, and, — as Mrs 
Rush-Marvelle had so indignantly told her husband, — no 
visitors were invited to the Manor during that winter. 
Errington was perfectly happy — he wanted no one but his 
wife, and the idea of entertaining a party of guests who 
would most certainly interfere with his domestic enjoyment, 
seemed almost abhorrent to him. The county-people 
called, — but missed seeing Thelma, for during the daytime 
she was always out with her husband taking long walks 
and rambling excursions to the different places hallowed by 
Shakespeare’s presence, — and when she, instructed by Sir 
Philip, called on the county-people, they also seemed to be 
never at home. 

And so, as yet, she had made no acquaintances, and now 
that she had been married eight months and had come to 
London, the same old stoiy repeated itself. People called 
on her in the afternoon just at the time when she went out 
driving, — when she returned their visits, she, in her turn, 
found them absent She did not as yet understand the 
n vstery of having “ a day ” on which to receive visitors in 
shoals — a day on which to drink unlimited tea, talk plati- 
tudes, and utterly bored and exhausted at the end thereof — 
in fact, she did not see the necessity of knowing many 
people, — her husband was all-sufficient for her, — to be in his 
society was all she cared for. She left her card at different 
houses because he told her to do so, but this social duty 
amused her immensely. 

“ It IS like a game ! ” she declared, laughing, “ some one 
comes and leaves these little cards which explain who they 
are, on me ^ — then I go and leave my little cards and yours, 
explaining who we are on that some one — and we keep on 
doing this, yet we never see each other by any chance 1 It 
is so droll ! ” 

Errington did not feel called upon to explain what was 
really the fact, — namely, that none of the ladies who had 
left cards on his wife had given her the option of their “ at 
home ” day on which to call, — he did not think it necessary 
to tell her what he knew very well, that his “ set,” both in 
county and town, had resolved to “snub” her in every 
petty fashion they could devise, — that he had already re- 
ceived several invitations which, as they did not include 
her, he had left unanswered, — and that the only house to 
which she had as yet been really asked in proper form was 
that of Lady W insleig.h. He was more amused than vexed 


TEE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


269 


at the resolute stand made by the so-called “ leaders ’ of 
society against her, knowing as he did, most thoroughly, 
how she must conquer them all in the end. She had been 
seen nowhere as yet but in the Park, and Philip had good 
reason to be contented with the excitement her presence had 
created there, — but he was a little astonished at Lady 
Winsleigh’s being the first to extend a formal welcome to 
his unknown bride. Her behavior seemed to him a little 
suspicious, — for he certainly could not diguise from himself 
that she had at one time been most violently and recklessly 
in love with him. He recollected one or two most painful 
scenes he had had with her, in which he had endeavored to 
recall her to a sense of the duty she owed to her husband, 
— and his face often fiushed with vexation when he thought 
of her wild and wicked abandonment of despair, her tears, 
her passion, and distracted, dishonoring words. Yet she 
was the very woman who now came forward in the very 
front of society to receive his wife 1 — he could not quite 
understand it. After all, he was a man, — and the sundry 
artful tricks and wiles of fashionable ladies were, naturall}^, 
beyond him. Thelma had never met Lady Winsleigh — not 
even for a passing glance in the Park, — and when she re- 
ceived the invitation for the grand reception at Winsleigh 
House, she accepted it, because her husband wished her so 
to do, not that she herself anticipated any particular pleas- 
ure from it. When the day came round at last she 
scarcely thought of it, till at the close of their pleasant 
breakfast tete-d-tete described at the commencement of this 
chapter, Philip suddenly said, — 

“ By-the-by, Thelma, I have sent to the bank for the Er- 
rington diamonds. They’ll be here presently. I want you 
to wear them to-night.” 

Thelma looked puzzled and inquiring. 

“ To-night ? What is it that we do ? I forget I Oh ! now I 
know — it is to go to Lady Winsleigh. What will it be like, 
Philip ? ” 

“ Well, there’ll be heaps of people all cramming and 
crowding up the stairs and down them again, — you’ll 
see all those women who have called on you, and you’ll 
be introduced to them, — I dare say there’ll be some 
bad music and an indigestible supper — and — and — that’s 
all ! ” 

She laughed and shook her head reproachfully. 

“ I cannot believe you, my naughty boy I ” she said, rising 


270 


THELMA. 


from her seat, and kneeling beside him with arms round his 
neck, and soft eyes gazing lovingly into his. “You are 
nearly as bad as that very bad Mr. Lorimer, who will al- 
ways see strange vexations in everything I I am quite 
sure Lady Winsleigh will not have crowds up and down her 
stairs, — that would be bad taste. And if she has music, it 
will be good — and she would not give her friends a supper 
to make them ill.” 

Philip did not answer. He was studying every deli- 
icate tint in his wife’s dazzling complexion and seemed 
absorbed. 

“Wear that one gown you got from Worth,” he said 
abruptly. “ I like it — it suits you.” 

“ Of course I will wear it if you wish,” she answered, 
laughing still. “ But why ? What does it matter ? You 
want me to be something very splendid in dress to- 
night ? ” 

Philip drew a deep breath. “ I want you to eclipse 
every woman in the room 1 ” he said with remarkable 
emphasis. 

She grew rather pensive. “ I do not think that would 
be pleasant,” she said gravely. “ Besides, it is impossible. 
And it would be wrong to wush me to make every one else 
dissatisfied with themselves. That is not like you, my 
Philip 1 ” 

He touched with tender fingers the great glistening coil 
of hair that was twisted up at the top of her graceful head. 

“ Ah, darling 1 You don’t know what a world it is, and 
what very queer people there are in it ! Never mind ? . . 

. don’t bother yourself about it. You’ll have a good 
bird’s-eye view of society to-night, and you shall tell me 
afterwards how you like it. I shall be curious to know 
what you think of Lady Winsleigh.” 

“ She is beautiful, is she not ? ” 

“ Well, she is considered so by most of her acquaintances, 
and by herself,” he returned with a smile. 

“ I do like to see very pretty faces,” said Thelma w’armly ; 
“ it is as if one looked at pictures. Since I have been in 
London I have seen so many of them — it is quite pleasant. 
Yet none of these lovely ladies seem to me as if they were 
really happy or strong in health.” ^ 

“ Half of them have got nervous diseases and all sorts 
of things wrong with them from over-much tea and tight 
lacing,” replied Errington, and the few who are tolerably 


TEE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


271 


healthy are too bouncing by half, going in for hunting and 
such-like amusements till they grow blowsy and fat, and 
coarse as tom-boys or grooms. They can never hit the 
juste milieu. Well!” and he rose from the breakfast- 
table. “ I’ll go and see Neville and attend to business. 
We’ll drive out this afternoon for some fresh air, and after- 
wards you must rest, my pet — for you’ll find an ‘ at home ’ 
more tiring than climbing a mountain in Norway.” 

He kissed, and left her to her usual occupations, of which 
she had many, for she had taken great pains to learn all the 
details of the work in the Errington Establishment, — in 
fact, she went every morning to the little room where Mis- 
tress Parton, the housekeeper, received her with much re- 
spect -and aflection, and duly instructed her on every point 
of the domestic management and daily expenditure, so that 
she was thoroughly acquainted with everything that went 
on. 

She had very orderly quiet ways of her own, and though 
thoughtful for the comfort and well-being of the lowest 
servant in her household she very firmly checked ail ex- 
travagance and waste, yet in such a gentle, unobtrusive 
manner that her control was scarcely felt — though her hus- 
band at once recognized it in the gradually decreasing 
weekly expenses, while to all appearance, things were the 
same as ever. She had plenty of clear, good common 
sense, — she saw no reason why she should waste her hus- 
band’s wealth simply because it was abundant, — so that 
under her mild sway. Sir Philip found himself getting 
richer without any trouble on his own part. His house as- 
sumed an air of lighter and more tasteful elegance, — flowers, 
always arranged by Thelma herself, adorned the rooms, — 
birds filled the great conservatory with their delicious 
warblings, and gradually that strange fairy sweet fabric 
known as “ Home ” rose smilingly around him. Formerly 
he had much disliked his stately town mansion — he had 
thought it dull and cold — almost gloomy, — but now he con- 
sidered it charming, and wondered he had missed so many 
of its good points before. 

And when the evening for Lady Winsleigh’s “ crush ” 
came, — he looked regretfully round the lovely luxurious 
drawing-room with its bright fire, deep easy chairs, books, 
and grand piano, and wished he and his wife could remain at 
home in peace. He glanced at his watch — it was ten o’clock. 
There was no hurry — he had not the least intention of 


272 


THELMA. 


arriving at Winsleigb House too early. He knew what the 
effect of Thelma’s entrance would be — and he smiled as he 
thought of it. He was waiting for her now, — he himself 
was ready in full evening dress — and remarkably handsome 
he looked. He walked up and down restlessly for a minute 
or so, — then taking up a volume of Keats, he threw himself 
into an easy chair and soon became absorbed. His eyes 
were still on the printed page, when a light touch on his 
shoulder startled him, — a soft, half-laughing voice in- 
quired — 

“ Philip ! Do I please you ? ” 

He sprang up and faced her, — but for a moment could 
not speak. The perfection of her beaut}^ had never ceased 
to arouse his wonder and passionate admiration, — but on 
this night, as she stood before him, arrayed in a simple, 
trailing robe of ivor3^-tinted velvet, with his family dia- 
monds flashing in a tiara of light on her hair, glistening 
against the whiteness of her throat and rounded arms, she 
looked angelically lovely — so radiant, so royal, and withal 
so innocently happy, that, wistfully gazing at her, and 
thinking of the social clique into which she was about to 
make her entry, he wondered. vaguely" whether he was not 
wrong to take so pure and fair a creature among the false 
glitter and reckless h3'pocris3^ of modern fashion and folly. 
And so he stood silent, till Thelma grew anxious. 

“ Ah, 3^ou are not satisfied 1 ” she said pljrintively. “ I am 
not as you wish I There is something wrong.” 

He drew her closely into his arms, kissing her with an al- 
most pathetic tenderness. 

“ Thelma, my love, my sweet one I ” and his strong voice 
trembled. “ You do not know — how should you? what I 
think of you I Satisfied ? Pleased ? Good Heavens— 
what little words those are to express m3" feelings ! I can 
tell 3"ou how 3"ou look, for nothing can ever make you vain. 
You are beautiful I . . . 3"ou are the most beautiful 

woman 1 have ever seen, and 3^011 look your very best to- 
night. But 3"ou are more than beautiful — 3^011 are good 

and pure and true, while society is But wh3" should I 

destroy your illusions? Only, my wife, — we have been all 
in all to each other, — and now I have a foolish feeling as 
if things were going to be different— as if we should not 
be so much together— and I wish— I wish to God I could 
keep you all to myself without anybody’s interference I ” 

She looked at him in wonder, though she smiled. 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


^73 


“ But you have changed, my hoy, since the morning,’^ she 
said. “ Then you did wish me to be particular in drsss,— 
and to wear your jewels, for this Lady Winsleigh. Now 
your eyes are sad, and you seem as if you would rather not 
go at all. Well, is it not easy to remain at home? I will 
take off these fine things, and we will sit together and read. 
Shall it be so ? ” 

He laughed. “ I believe you would do it if I asked you ! ” 
he said. 

“ But, of course ! I am quite happy alone with you. I 
care nothing for this party, — what is it to me if you do not 
wish to go ? ” 

He kissed her again. “ Thelma, don’t spoil me too much ! 
If you let me have my own way to such an extent, who 
knows what an awful domestic tyrant I may become! No, 
dear — we must go to-night — there’s no help for it. You see 
we’ve accepted the invitation, and it’s no use being churlish. 
Besides, after all ” — he gazed at her admiringly — “ I want 
them to see my Norwegian rose! Come along! The car- 
riage is waiting.” 

They passed out into the hall, where Britta was in at- 
tendance with a long cloak of pale-blue plush lined with 
w^hite fur, in which she tenderly enveloped her beloved 
“ Broken,” her rosy face beaming with affectionate adora- 
tion as she glanced from the fair diamond-crowned head 
down to the point of a small pearl-embroidered shoe that 
peeped beneath the edge of the rich, sheeny white robe, and 
saw that nothing was lacking to the most perfect toilette 
that ever woman wore. 

“ Good-night, Britta ! ” said Thelma kindly. “ You must 
not sit up for me. You will be tired.” 

Britta smiled — it was evident she meant to outwatch the 
stars, if necessary, rather than allow her mistress to be un- 
attended on her return. But she said nothing — she waited 
at the door while Philip assisted his wife into the carriage 
—and still stood musingly under the wide portico, after 
they had driven away. 

“ Hadn’t you better come in, Miss Britta ? ” said the but- 
ler respectfully,— he had a great regard for her ladyship’s 
little maid. 

Britta, recalled to herself, started, turned, and re-entered 
the hall. 

“ There will be many fine folks there to-night, I suppose ? 
she asked. 

J8 


274 


THELMA, 


The butler rubbed his nose perplexedlj^ “ Fine folks f 
At Winsleigh House? Well, as far as clothes go, I daresa3' 
there will. But there’ll be no one like her ladyship — no 
one ! ” And he shook his grey head emphatically. 

“ Of course not ! ” said Britta, with a sort of triumphant 
defiance. “We know that very well, Morris I There’s no 
one like her ladyship anywhere in the wide world ! But I 
tell 3"ou what — I think a great many people will be jealous 
of her.” 

Morris smiled. “ You may take your oath of that. Miss 
Britta,” he said with placid conviction. “ Jealous ! Jealous 
isn’t the word for it ! Why,” and he surve3^ed Britta’s 
youthful countenance with fatherly interest, “ 3^ou’re onl3^ a 
child as it were, and 3^011 don’t know the world much. 
Now, I’ve been five and twenty 3^ears in this family, and I 
knew Sir Philip’s mother, the Lad3" Eulalie — he named his 
yacht after her. Ah ! she was a sweet creature — she came 
from Austria, and she was as dark as her present ladyship 
is fair. Wherever she went, 1 tell 3^011, the women were 
ready to cry for spite and envy of her good looks — and 
they would say an3"thing against her they could invent. 
That’s the way they go on sometimes in societ3% 3"ou 
know.” 

“ As bad as in Bosekop,” murmured Britta, more to her- 
self than to him, “ only London is a larger place.” Then 
raising her voice again, she said, “ Perhaps there will be 
some people wicked enough to hate her ladyship, Morris?” 

“ I shouldn’t wonder,” said Morris philosophically. “ I 
shouldn’t wonder at all I There’s a deal of hate about one 
way or another, — and if a lady is as beautiful as an angel, 
and cuts out everybody wherever she goes, why 3^011 can’t 
expect the other ladies to be veiy fond of her. ’Tisn’t in 
human nature — at least not in feminine human nature. 
Men don’t care much about their looks, one way or the 
other, unless they’re young chaps — then one has a little pa- 
tience wdth them and the3’^ come all right.” 

But Britta had become meditative again. She went slowly 
up into her mistress’s room and began arranging the few 
trifles that had been left in disorder. 

“ J ust fancy I ” — she said to herself— “ some one may hate 
the Broken even in London just as they hated her in Bose- 
kop, because she is so unlike everybody else. I shall keep 
my eyes open, — and I shall soon find out any wickedness 
against her I My beautiful^ dear darling I I believe the 


THE LAND OF 3I0CKEBY. 


275 


world is a cruel place after all, — but she shan’t be made un- 
happy in it, if I can help it ! ” 

And with this emphatic declaration, she kissed a little 
shoe of Thelma’s that she was just putting by — and, 
smoothing her curls, went down to her supper. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ Such people there are living and flourishing in the world, — Faith- 
less, Hopeless, Charityless, — let us have at them, dear friends, with 
might and main ! ” — Thackekay. 

W HO can adequately describe the thrilling excitement at- 
tending an aristocratic “ crush,” — an extensive, sweeping- 
off-of-old-scores “ at home,” — that scene of bewildering con- 
fusion which might be appropriately set forth to the minds 
of the vulgar in the once-popular ditty, “ Such a getting- 
up-stairs I never did see I ” Who can paint in sufficiently 
brilliant colors the mere outside of a house thus distin- 
guished by this strange festivity, in which there is no act- 
ual pleasure, — this crowding of carriages — this shouting of 
small boj^s and policemen? — who can, in words, delineate 
the various phases of lofty indignation and offense on the 
countenances of pompous coachmen, forced into contention 
with vulgar but good-natured “ cabbys ” — for right of way ? 
. . . who can sufficiently set forth the splendors of a 

striped awning avenue, lined on both sides with a collec- 
tion of tropical verdure, hired for the occasion at so much 
per dozen pots, and illuminated with Chinese lanterns 1 
Talk of orange groves in Italy and the languid light of a 
southern moon I What are they compared to the marvels 
of striped awning ? Mere trees — mere moonlight — (poor 
products of Nature !) do not excite either wonder or envy 
— but, strange to say, an awning avenue invariably does ! 
As soon as it is erected in all its bland suggestiveness, 
no matter at what house, a small crowd of street-arabs 
and nursemaids collect to stare at it, — and when tired of 
staring, pass and repass under it with peculiar satisfac- 
tion ; the beggar, starving for a crust, lingers doubtfully 
near it, and ventures to inquire of the influenza-smitten 
crossing-sweeper whether it is a wedding or a party ? And 
if Awning Avenue means matrimony, the beggar waits to 
see the guests come out ; if, on tlie contrary, it stands 
for some evening festivity, he goes, resolving to return at 


27G 


THELMA, 


the appointed hour, and try if he cannot persuade one 
“ swell ” at least to throw him a penny for his night’s 
supper. Yes — a great many people endure sharp twinges 
of discontent at the sight of Awning Avenue, — people who 
can’t afford to give parties, and who wish they could, — 
pretty, sweet girls who never go to a dance in their lives, 
and long with all their innocent hearts for a glimpse, — • 
just one glimpse! — of what seems to them inexhaustible, 
fairy-like delight, — lonely folks, who imagine in their sim- 
plicity that all who are privileged to pass between the 
lines of hired tropical foliage aforementioned, must perforce 
be the best and most united of friends — hungry men and 
women who picture, with watering mouths, the supper- 
table that lies beyond the awning, laden with good things, 
of the very names of which they are hopelessly ignorant, 
— while now and then a stern, dark-browed Thinker or two 
may stalk by and metaphorically shake his fist at all the 
waste, extravagance, useless luxury, humbug, and hypoc- 
risy Awning Avenue usually symbolizes, and may mutter 
in his beard, like an old-fashioned tragedian, “ A time will 
come 1 ” Yes, Sir Thinker 1 — it will most undoubtedly — 
it must — but not through you — not through any mere hu- 
man agency. Modern society contains within itself the 
seed of its own destruction, — the most utter Nihilist that 
ever swore deadly oath need but contain his soul in pa- 
tience and allow the seed to ripen. For God’s justice is 
as a circle that slowly surrounds an evil and as slowly 
closes on it with crushing and resistless force, — and fever- 
ish, fretting humanity, however nobly inspired, can do 
nothing either to hasten or retard the round, perfect, ab- 
solute and Divine Law. So let the babes of the world 
play on, and let us not frighten them with stories of earth- 
quakes ; they are miserable enough as it is, believe it ! 
— their toys are so brittle, and snap in their feeble hands 
so easily, that one is inclined to pity them I And Awn- 
ing Avenue, with its borrowed verdure and artificial light, 
is frequently erected for the use of seme of the most 
wretched among the children of the earth, — children who 
have trifled with and lost everything, — love, honor, hope, 
and faith, and who are travelling rapidly to the grave 
with no consolation save a few handfuls of base coin, 
which they must, perforce, leave behind them at the last. 

So it may be that the crippled crossing-sweeper outside 
Winsleigh House is a very great deal happier than the 


THE LAND OF 3I0CKERY. 


277 


master of that statel}^ mansion. He has a new broom, — and 
Master Ernest Winsleigh has given him two oranges, and 
a rather bulky stick of sugar candy. He is a protege of 
Ernest’s — that bright handsome boy considers it a “jolly 
shame ” — to have only one leg, — and has said so with much 
emphasis, — and though the little sweeper himself has never 
regarded his affliction quite in that light, he is exceedingly 
grateful for the young gentleman’s patronage and S3^m- 
pathy thus frankly expressed. And on this particular night 
of the grand reception he stands, leaning on his broom and 
munching his candy, a delighted spectator of the scene 
in Park Lane, — the splendid equipages, the prancing 
horses, the glittering liveries, the excited cabmen, the mag- 
nificent toilettes of the ladies, the solemn and resigned de- 
portment of the gentlemen, — and he envies none of them — 
not he ! Why should he ? His oranges are in his pocket — 
untouched as j^et — and it is doubtful whether the crowding 
guests at the Winsleigh supper-table shall find anything 
there to yield them such entire enjoyment as he will 
presently take in his humble yet refreshing desert. And he 
is pleased as a child at a pantomime — the Winsleigh “ at 
home ” is a show that amuses him, — and he makes sundry 
remarks on “ ’im ” and “ ’er ” in a meditative sotto voce. 
He peeps up Awning Avenue heedless of the severe eye of 
the policeman on guard, — he sweeps the edge of the crimson 
felt foot-cloth tenderly with his broom, — and if he has a de- 
sire ungratified, it is that he might take a* peep just for a 
minute inside the front door, and see how “ they’re all 
a’goin’ it ! ” 

And how are they a’goin’ it I Well, not very hilariously, 
if one ma}" judge by the aspect of the gentlemen in the hall 
and on the stairs, — gentlemen of serious demeanor, who are 
leaning, as though exhausted, against the banisters, with a 
universal air of profound weariness and dissatisfaction. 
Some of these are young fledglings of manhood, — callow 
birds who, though by no means innocent, — are more or less 
inexperienced, — and who have fluttered hither to the snare 
of Lady Winsleigh’s “at home,” half expecting to be 
allowed to make lov^e to their hostess, and so have some- 
thing to boast of afterwards, — others are of the middle-aged 
complacent type, who, though infinitely bored, have con- 
descended to “ look in ” for ten minutes or so, to see if there 
are any pretty women worth the honor of their criticism — 
others again (and these are the most unfortunate) are the 


‘278 


THELMA. 


“nobodies” — or husbands, fathers, and brothers of“beau> 
ties,” whom they have dutifull}^ escorted to the scene of 
triumph, in which they, unlucky wights ! are certainlj'- not 
expected to share. A little desultorj^ conversation goes on 
among these stair-loungers, — conversation mingled with 
much dreary yawning, — a trained opera-singer is shaking 
forth chromatic roulades and trills in the great drawing-room 
above, — there is an incessant stream of people coming and 
going, — there is the rustle of silk and satin, — perfume 
shaken out of lace kerchiefs, and bouquets oppresses the 
warm air, — the heat is excessive, — and there is a never-end- 
ing monotonous hum of voices, only broken at rare inter- 
vals by the “ society laugh ” — that unmeaning giggle on 
the part of the women, — that strained “ ha, ha, ha I ” on the 
part of the men, which is but the faint ghostly echo of the 
farewell voice of true mirth. 

Presentl}^, out of the ladies’ cloak-room come two fasci- 
nating figures — the one plump and matronl}^, with gre3^hair 
and a capacious neck glittering with diamonds, — the other 
a slim girl in pale pink, with dark ej^es and a ravishing 
complexion, for whom the lazy gentlemen on the stairs 
make immediate and respectful room. 

“How d’ye do, Mrs. Van Clupp?” says one of the 
loungers. 

“ Glad to see you, Miss Marcia I ” sa^^s another, a sand}^- 
haired young man, with a large gardenia in his button- 
hole, and a glass in his e^'e. 

At the sound of his voice Miss Marcia stops and regards 
him with a surprised smile. She is ver}^ pretty, is Marcia, 
— bewitchingly pretty, — and she has an air of demure grace 
and modesty about her that is perfectl^^ charming. Why ! 
oh, why does she not remain in that s^dph-like attitude of 
questioning silence ? But she speaks — and the charm is 
broken. 

“Waal now I Dew tell 1 ” she exclaims. “ I thought 
yew were in Pa-ar — is ! Ma, would yew have concluded to 
find Lord Algy here? This is too lovely I If I’d known 
yew were coming I’d have stopped at home — yes, I would 
—that’s sol” 

And she nods her little head, crowned with its glossy 
braids of chestnut hair, in a very coquettish manner, 
while her mother, persistently beaming a stereotyped corn* 
pany smile on all around her, begins to ascend the stairs, 


TBE LANE OF 3L0CKEBr. 


279 


beckoning her daughter to follow. Marcia does so, and 
Lord Algernon Masherville escorts her. 

“You — you didn’t mean that?” he stammers rather 
feebly — “You — you don’t mind m}^ being here, do you? 
I’m — I’m awfully glad to see you again, you know — and — 
er — all that sort of thing I ” 

Marcia darts a keen glance at him, — the glance of an ob- 
servant, clear-headed magpie. 

“ Oh yes I I dare say ! ” she remarks with airy scorn. 
“ S’pect me to believe yew! Waal I Did yew have a good 
time in Pa-ar — is ? ” 

“ Fairly so,” answers Lord Masherville indifferently. “ I 
only came back two days ago. Lady Winsleigh met me by 
chance at the theatre, and asked me to look in to-night for 
‘ some fun ’ she said. Have you any idea what she meant ? ” 

“Of course!” sa^^s the fair New Yorker, with a little 
nasal laugh, — “ don’t yew know ? We’re all here to see the 
fisherwoman from the wilds of Norway, — the creature Sir 
Philip Errington married last year. I conclude she’ll give 
us fits all round, don’t yew ? ” 

Lord Masherville, at this, appears to hesitate. His eye- 
glass troubles him, and he fidgets with its black string. He 
is not intellectual — he is the most vacillating, most meek 
and timid of mortals — but he is a gentleman in his own 
poor fashion, and has a sort of fluttering chivalry about him, 
which, though feeble, is better than none. 

“ I really cannot tell you. Miss Marcia,” he replies almost 
nervousl}^ “ I hear — at the Club, — that — that Lady Bruce- 
Errington is a great beauty.” 

“ Dew tell I ” shrieks Marcia, with a burst of laughter. 
“ Is she really though! But I guess her looks won’t mend 
her grammar any way ! ” 

He makes no reply, as by this time they have reached 
the crowded drawing-room, where Lady Winsleigh, radiant 
in ruby velvet and rose-brilliants, stands receiving her 
guests, with a cool smile and nod for mere acquaintances, — 
and a meaning flash of her dark eyes for her intimates, and 
a general air of haughty insolence and perfect self-satisfac- 
tion pervading her from head to foot. Close to her is her 
husband, grave, courtly, and kind to all comers, and fulfill- 
ing his duty as host to perfection, — still closer is Sir 
Francis Lennox, who in the pauses of the incoming tide of 
guests finds occasion to whisper trifling nothings in her tiny 
white ear, and even once ventures to arrange more taste^ 


280 


THELMA. 


fully a falling cluster of pale roses that rests lightly on tho 
brief shoulder-strap (called by courtesy a sleeve) which 
keeps her ladyship’s bodice in place. 

Mrs. Rush-Marvelle is here too, in all her glory, — her 
good-humored countenance and small nose together beam 
with satisfaction, — her voluminous train of black satin 
showered with jet gets in everybody’s way, — her ample 
bosom heaves like the billowy sea, somewhat above the 
boundary line of transparent lace that would fain restrain 
it — but in this particular she is prudence itself compared 
with her hostess, whose charms are exhibited with the un- 
blushing frankness of a ballet-girl, — and whose example is 
followed, it must be confessed, by most of the women in the 
room. Is Mr. Rush-Marvelle here ? Oh yes — after some 
little trouble we discover him, — squeezed against the wall 
and barricaded by the grand piano, — in company with a 
large album, over which he pores, feigning an almost morbid 
interest in the portraits of persons he has never seen, and 
never will see. Beside him is a melancholy short man with 
long hair and pimples, who surveys the increasing crowd in 
the room with an aspect that is almost tragic. Once or 
twice he eyes Mr. Marvelle dubiously as though he would 
speak — and, finally, he does speak, tapping that album-en- 
tranced gentleman on the arm with an energy that is some- 
what startling. 

“ It is to blay I am here I ” he announces. “ To blay ze 
biano ! I am great artist ! ” He rolls his eyes wildly and 
with a sort of forced calmness proceeds to enumerate on his 
fingers — “ Baris, Vienna, Rome, Berlin, St. Betersburg — 
all know me I All resbect me I See ! ” And he holds out 
his button-hole in which there is a miniature red ribbon. 
“From ze Emberor I Kaiser Wilhelm!” He exhibits a 
ring on his little finger. “From ze Tsar!” Another 
rapid movement and a pompous gold watch is thrust before 
the bewildered gaze of his listener. “ From my bubils in 
Baris ! I am bianist — I am here to blay ! ” 

And raking his fingers through his long locks, he stares 
defiantly around him. Mr. Rush-Marvelle is a little fright- 
ened. This IS an eccentric personage — he must be soothed. 
Evidently he must be soothed ! 

“Yes, yes, I quite understand!” he says, nodding per- 
suasively at the excited genius. “You are here to play. 
Exactly I Yes, yes! We shall alJ have the pleasure of 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


281 


hearing you presently. Delightful, I’m sure 1 You are 
the celebrated Herr — ?” 

“ Machtenklinken,” adds the pianist haughtily. “ Ze 
celebrated Machtenklinken ! ” 

“Yes — oh — er, — yes!” And Mr. Marvelle grapples 

desperately with this terrible name. “ Oh — er — yes ! I — 

er know you by reputation Herr — er — Machten . Oh, 

er — yes ! Pray excuse me for a moment ! ” 

And thankfully catching the commanding eye of his 
wife, he scrambles hastily away from the piano and joins 
her. She is talking to the Van Clupps, and she wants him 
to take away Mr. Van Clupp, a white-headed, cunning-look- 
ing old man, for a little conversation, in order that she may 
be free to talk over certain naughty bits of scandal with 
Mrs. Van Clupp and Marcia. 

To-night there is no place to sit down in all the grand 
extent of the Winsleigh drawing-rooms, — puffy old dowa- 
gers occupy the sofas, ottomans, and chairs, and the largest 
and most brilliant portion of the assemblage are standing, 
grinning into each other’s faces with praiseworthy and 
polite pertinacity, and talking as rapidly as though their 
lives depended on how many words they could utter within 
the space of two minutes. Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, Mrs. Van 
Clupp and Marcia make their way slowly through the gab- 
bling, pushing, smirking crowd till they form a part of the 
little coterie immediately round Lady Winsleigh, to whom, 
at the first opportunity, Mrs. Marvelle whispers — 

“ Have they come ? ” 

“The modern Paris and the new Helen?” laughs Lady 
Clara, with a shrug of her snowy shoulders. “No, not yet. 
Perhaps they won’t turn up at all 1 Marcia dear, you look 
quite charming ! Where is Lord Algy ? ” 

“ I guess he’s not a thousand miles away I ” returns Mar- 
cia, with a knowing twinkle of her dark eyes. “ He’ll hang 
round here presently I Why, — there’s Mr. Lorimer worry- 
ing in at the doorway I ” 

“Worrying in” is scarcely the term to apply to the 
polite but determined manner in which George Lorimer 
coolly elbows a passage among the heaving bare shoulders, 
backs, fat arms, and long trains that seriously obstruct his 
passage, but after some trouble he succeeds in his efforts to 
reach his fair hostess, who receives him with rather a super- 
cilious uplifting of her delicate eyebrows. 

“ Dear me, Mr. Lorimer, you are quite a stranger I ” she 


282 


THELMA. 


observes somewhat satirically. “ We thought you had 
made up your mind to settle in Norway ! ” 

“ Did you really, though ! ” and Lorimer smiles languidly. 
“ I wonder at that, — for you knew I came back from that 
region in the August of last year.” 

“ And since then I suppose you have played the hermit ? ” 
inquires her ladyship indifferently, unfurling her fan of os« 
trich feathers and waving it slowly to and fro. 

“ By no means ! I went off to Scotland with a friend, 
Alec Macfarlane, and had some excellent shooting. Then, 
as I never permit my venerable mamma to pass the winter 
in London, I took her to Nice, from which delightful spot 
we returned three weeks ago.” 

Lady Winsleigh laughs. “ I did not ask you for a cate- 
gorical explanation of your movements, Mr. Lorimer,” she 
says lightly — “ I’m sure I hope you enjoyed yourself? ” 

He bows gravely. ‘‘Thanks! Yes, — strange to say, I 
did manage to extract a little pleasure here and there out 
of the universal dryness of things.” 

“ Have you seen your friend. Sir Philip, since he came to 
town ?” asks Mrs. Rush-Marvelle in her stately way. 

“ Several times. I have dined with him and Lady Er- 
rington frequently. I understand they are to be here to- 
night ? ” 

Lady Winsleigh fans herself a little more rapidly, and 
her full crimson lips tighten into a thin, malicious line. 

“ Well, I asked them, of course, — as a matter of form,” 
she says carelessly, — “ but I shall, on the whole, be rather 
relieved if they don’t come.” 

A curious, amused look comes over Lorimer’s face. 

“ Indeed I May I ask why ? ” 

“ I should think the reason ought to be perfectly appar- 
ent to you ” — and her ladyship’s eyes flash angrily. “ Sir 
Philip is all very well — he is by birth a gentleman, — but 
the person he has married is not a lady, and it is an ex- 
ceedingly unpleasant duty for me to have to receive her.” 

A faint tinge of color flushes Lorimer’s brow. “ I 
think,” he says slowly, “ I think you will find yourself mis- 
taken, Lady Winsleigh. I believe ” Here he pauses, 

and Mrs. Rush-Marvelle fixes him with a stony stare. 

“ Are we to understand that she is educated ? ” she in- 
quires freezingly. “ Positively well-educated ? ” 

Lorimer laughs. “ Not according to the standard of 
modern fashionable requirements 1 ” he replies. 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


283 


Mrs. Marvelle sniffs the air portentously, — Lady Clara 
curls her lip. At that moment everybody makes respectful 
way for one of the most important guests of the evening — 
a broad-shouldered man of careless attire, rough hair, fine 
features, and keen, mischievous eyes- — a man of whom many 
stand in wholesome awe, — Beaufort Lovelace, or as he is 
commonly called. “ Beau ” Lovelace, a brilliant novelist, 
critic, and pitiless satirist. For him society is a game, — a 
gay humming-top which he spins on the palm of his hand 
for his own private amusement. Once a scribbler in an at- 
tic, subsisting bravely on bread and cheese and hope, he 
now lords it more than half the year in a palace of fairy- 
like beauty on the Lago di Como, — and he is precisely the 
same person who was formerly disdained and flouted by fair 
ladies because his clothes were poor and shabby, yet for 
whom they now practise all the arts known to their sex, in 
fruitless endeavors to charm and conciliate him. For he 
laughs at them and their pretty ways, — and his laughter is 
merciless. His arrowy glance discovers the “ poudre de 
riz ” on their blooming cheeks, — the carmine on their lips, 
and the “ kohl ” on their eyelashes. He knows purchased 
hair from the natural growth — and he has a cruel e^^e for 
discerning the artificial contour of a “ made-up ” figure. 
And like a merry satyr dancing in a legendary forest, he 
capers and gambols in the vast fields of Humbug — all forms 
of it are attacked and ridiculed by his powerful and pun- 
gent pen, — he is a sort of English Heine, gathering in rich 
and daily harvests from the never-perishing incessantly- 
growing crop of fools. And as he, — in all the wickedness 
of daring and superior intellect, — approaches. Lady Wins- 
leigh draws herself up with the conscious air of a beauty 
who knows she is nearly perfect, — Mrs. Rush-Marvelle 
makes a faint endeavor to settle the lace more modestly 
over her rebellious bosom, — Marcia smiles coquettishly, and 
Mrs. Yan Clupp brings her diamond pendant (value, a 
thousand guineas) more prominently forward, — for as she 
thinks, poor ignorant soul I “ wealth always impresses these 
literary men more than an3^thing ! ” In one swift glance 
Beau Lovelace observes all these different movements,. — and 
the inner fountain of his mirth begins to bubble. “ What 
fun those Yan Clupps are ! ” he thinks. “ The old woman’s 
got a diamond plaster on her neck ! Horrible taste ! She’s 
anxious to show how much she’s worth, I suppose I Mrs. 
Marvelle wants a shawl, and Lady Clara a bodice. By 


284 


THELMA. 


Jove! What sights the women do make of them- 
selves ! ” 

But his face betrays none of these reflections, — its ex- 
pression is one of polite gravity, though a sudden sweet- 
ness smooths it as he shakes hands with Lord Winsleigh 
and Lorimer, — a sweetness that shows how remarkably 
handsome Beau can look if he chooses. He rests one hand 
on Lorimer’s shoulder. 

“ Why, George, old boy, I thought you were playing the 
dutiful son at Nice? Don’t tell me ^^ou’ve deserted the 
dear old lady ! Where is she ? You know I’ve got to fin- 
ish that argument with her about her beloved Byron.” 

Lorimer laughs. “ Go and finish it when you like. 
Beau,” he answers. “ My mother’s all right. She’s at 
home. You know she’s always charmed to see you. She’s 
delighted with that new book of yours.” 

“ Is she ? She finds pleasure in trifles then ” 

“ Oh no, Mr. Lovelace I ” interrupts Lady Clara, with a 
winning glance. “ You must not run yourself down I The 
book is exquisite I I got it at once from the library, and 
read every line of it 1 ” 

“ I am exceedingly flattered I ” says Loa" elace, with a 
grave bow, though there is a little twinkling mockery in 
his glance. “ When a lady so bewitching condescends to 
read what I have written, how can I express my emotion 1 ” 

“ The press is unanimous in its praise of you,” remarks 
Lord Winsleigh cordially. “ You are quite the lion of the 
day ! ” 

“ Oh quite ! ” agrees Beau laughing. “ And do I not 
roar ‘ as sweet as any nightingale ’ ? But I say, where’s 
the new beauty ? ” 

“ I really do not know to whom you allude, Mr. Love- 
lace,” replies Lady Winsleigh coldly. Lorimer smiles and 
is silent. Beau looks from one to the other amusedly. 

“ Perhaps I’ve made a mistake,” he says, “ but the Duke 
of Roxwell is responsible. He told me that if I came here 
to-night I should see one of the loveliest women living, — 
Lady Bruce-Erriiigton. He saw her in the park. I think 
this gentleman ” — indicating Sir Francis Lennox, who bites 
his moustache vexedly — “ said quite openly at the Club 
last night that she was the new beauty, — and that she 
would be here this evening.” 

Lad}’’ Winsleigh darts a side glance at her “ Lennie ” 
that is far from pleasant. 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


285 


Really it’s perfectly absurd ! ” she says, with a scornful 
toss of her head. “ We shall have housemaids and bar- 
girls accepted as ‘ quite the rage ’ next. I do not know 
Sir Philip’s wife in the least, — I hear she was a common 
farmer’s daughter. I certainly invited her to-night out of 
charity and kindness in order that she might get a little 
accustomed to society — for, of course, poor creature ! en- 
tirely ignorant and uneducated as she is, everything will 
seem strange to her. But she has not come ” 

“ Sir Philip and Lady Bruce-Errington I ” announces 
Briggs at this juncture. 

There is a sudden hush — a movement of excitement, — 
and the groups near the door fall apart staring, and struck 
momentarily dumb with surprise, as a tall, radiant figure 
in dazzling white, with diamonds flashing on a glittering 
coil of gold hair, and wondrous sea-blue earnest eyes, passes 
through their midst with that royal free step and composed 
grace of bearing that might distinguish an Empress of 
many nations. 

“ Good heavens I What a magnificent woman I ” mutters 
Beau Lovelace — “ Venus realized! ” 

Lady Winsleigh turns very pale, — she trembles and can 
scarcely regain her usual composure as Sir Philip, with a 
proud tenderness lighting up the depths of his hazel eyes, 
leads this vision of youth and perfect loveliness up to her, 
saying simply — 

“Lady Winsleigh, allow me to introduce to you — my 
wife! Thelma, this is Lady Winsleigh.” 

There is a strange sensation in Lady Winsleigh’s throat 
as though a very tight string were suddenly drawn round 
it to almost strangling point — and it is certain that she 
feels as though she must scream, hit somebody with her 
fan, and rush from the room in an undignified rage. But 
she chokes back these purely feminine emotions — she smiles 
and extends her jewelled hand. 

“ So good of you to come to-night ! ” she says sweetly. 

I have been longing to see you. Lady Errington ! I dare 
sa}^ you know your husband is quite an old acquaintance of 
mine ! ” 

And a langourous glance, like fire seen through smoke, 
leaps from beneath her silky eyelashes at Sir Philip — but. 
he sees it not — he is chatting and laughing gail^^ with Lor- 
imer and Beau Lovelace. 

“ Indeed, yes ! ” answers Thelma, in that soft low voice 


286 


THELMA. 


of hers, which had such a thrilling richness within it — “ and 
it is for that reason I am very glad to meet you. It is al 
ways pleasant for me to know my husband’s friends.” 

Here she raises those marvellous, innocent eyes of hers 
and smiles ; — why does Lady Winsleigh shrink from that 
frank and childlike openness of regard ? Why does she, 
for one brief moment, hate herself? — why does she so sud- 
denly feel herself to be vile and beneath contempt ? God 
only knows ! — but the first genuine blush that has tinged 
her ladyship’s cheek for many a long day, suddenly spreads 
a hot and embarrassing tide of crimson over the polished 
pallor of her satiny skin, and she says hurriedly — 

“ I must find you some people to talk to. This is my 
dear friend, Mrs. Rush-Marvelle — I am sure 3^011 will like 
each other. Let me introduce Mrs. Tan Clupp to you — 
Mrs. Yan Clupp, and Miss Yan Clupp ! ” 

The ladies bow stiffly while Thelma responds to their 
prim salutation with easy grace. 

“ Sir Francis Lennox” — continues Lady Winsleigh, and 
there is something like a sneer in her smile, as that gentle, 
man makes a deep and courtly reverence, with an unmis- 
takable look of admiration in his sleepy tiger-brown ej^es, 
— then she turns to Lord Winsleigh and adds in a casual 
way, “ My husband ! ” Lord Winsleigh advances rather 
eagerly — there is a charm in the exquisite nobility of 
Thelma’s face that touches his heart and appeals to the 
chivalrous and poetical part of his nature. 

“ Sir Philip and I have known each other for some 
years,” he says, pressing her little fair hand cordially. “ It 
is a great pleasure for me to see you to-night. Lady Er- 
rington, — I realize how verj^ much my friend deserves to be 
congratulated on his marriage ! ” 

Thelma smiles. This Uttle speech pleases her, but she 
does not accept the compliment implied to herself. 

“ You are very kind, Lord Winsleigh ” — she answers; “ I 
am glad indeed that you like Philip. I do think with 3^011 
that he deserves every one’s good wishes. It is my great 
desire to make him always happy.” 

A brief shadow crosses Lord Winsleigh’s thoughtful 
brow, and he studies her sweet eyes attentively. Is she 
sincere ? Does she mean what she says ? Or is she, like 
others of her sex, merely playing a graceful part ? A 
slight sigh escapes him,— absolute truth, innocent love, 
md stainless purity are written in such fair, clear lines on 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


287 


that perfect countenance that the mere idea of questioning 
her sincerity seems a sacrilege. 

“ Your desire is gratified, I am sure,” he returns, and his 
voice is somewhat sad. “ I never saw him looking so well 
He seems in excellent spirits.” 

“ Oh, for that ! ” and she laughs. “ He is a very light- 
hearted boy I But once he would tell me very dreadful 
things about the world — how it was not at all worth living 
in — ^but I do think he must have been lonely. For he is 
very pleased with everything now, and finds no fault at 
all!” 

“ I can quite understand that I ” and Lord Winsleigh 
smiles, though that shadow of pain still rests on his brow. 

Mrs. Rush-Marvelle and the Yan Clupps are listening to 
the conversation with straining ears. What strange per 
son is this ? She does not talk bad grammar, though her 
manner of expressing herself is somewhat quaint and for- 
eign. But she is babyish — perfectly babyish I The idea of 
any well-bred woman condescending to sing the praises of 
her own husband in public I Absurd I “ Deserves every- 
one’s good wishes ! ” — pooh 1 her “ great desire is to make 
him always happy I ” — what utter rubbish ! — and he is a 
“ light-hearted boy I ” Good gracious I — what next ? Mar- 
cia Van Clupp is strongly inclined to giggle, and Mrs. Yan 
Clupp is indignantly conscious that the Errington dia- 
monds far surpass her own, both for size and lustre. 

At that moment Sir Philip approaches his wife, with 
George Lorimer and Beau Lovelace. Thelma’s smile at 
Lorimer is the greeting of an old friend — a sun-bright 
glance that makes his heart beat a little quicker than 
usual. He watches her as she turns to be introduced to 
Lovelace, — while Miss Yan Clupp, thinking of the relent- 
less gift of satire with which that brilliant writer is en- 
dowed, looks out for “ some fun ” — for, as she confides in a 
low tone to Mrs. Marvelle — “ she’ll never know how to talk 
to that man ! ” 

“ Thelma,” says Sir Philip, “ this is the celebrated 
author, Beaufort Lovelace, — you have often heard me speak 
of him.” 

She extends both' her hands, and her eyes deepen and 
flash. 

‘‘ Ah \ you are one of those great men whom we all love 
and admire ! ” she says, with direct frankness, — and the 
conical Beau, who has never yet received so sincere a com- 


288 


THELMA. 


pliment, feels himself coloring like a school-girh “ I am so 
very proud to meet you I I have read your wonderful 
book, ‘ Azaziel,’ and it made me glad and sorry together. 
For why do you draw a noble example and yet say at the 
same time that it is impossible to follow it ? Because in 
one breath you inspire us to be good, and yet you tell us 
we shall never become so ! That is not right, — is it ? ” 

Beau meets her questioning glance with a‘ grave smile. 

“ It is most likely entirely wrong from your point of 
view. Lady Errington,” he said. “ Some day we will talk 
over the matter. You shall show me the error of my ways. 
Perhaps you will put life, and the troublesome business of 
living, in quite a new light for me I You see, we novelists 
have an unfortunate trick of looking at the worst or most 
ludicrous side of everything — we can’t help it ! So many 
apparently lofty and pathetic tragedies turn out, on close 
examination, to be the meanest and most miserable of 
farces, — it’s no good making them out to be grand Greek 
poems when they are only base doggerel rhymes. Be- 
sides, it’s the fashion nowadays to be chiffonniers in liter- 
ature — to pick up the rags of life and sort them in all their 
uncomeliness before the morbid eyes of the public. What’s 
the use of spending thought and care on the manufacture 
of a jewelled diadem, and offering it to the people on a vel- 
vet cushion, when they prefer an olla-podrida of cast-off 
clothing, dried bones and candle-ends? In brief, what 
would it avail to write as grandly as Shakespeare or Scott, 
when society clamors for Zola and others of his school ? ” 

There was a little group round them by this time, — men 
generally collected wherever Beau Lovelace aired his opin- 
ions, — and a double attraction drew them together now in 
the person of the lovely woman to whom he was holding 
forth. 

Marcia Van Clupp stared mightily — surely the Norwegian 
peasant would not understand Beau’s similes, — for they were 
certainly incomprehensible to Marcia. As for his last re- 
mark — why I she had read all Zola’s novels in the secrecy 
of her own room, and had gloated over them ; — no words 
could describe her intense admiration of books that were so 
indelicately realistic I “ He is jealous of other writers, I 
suppose,” she thought ; “ these literary people hate each 
other like poison.” 

Meanwhile Thelma’s blue eyes looked puzzled. “ I do 
not know that name,” she said. “ Zola I— what is he ? He 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


289 


cannot be great. Shakeupeare I know, — he is the glory of 
the world, of course ; I think him as noble as Homer. 
Then for Walter Scott — I love all his beautiful stories — I 
have read them many, many times, nearly as often as I 
have read Homer and the Norse Sagas. And the world 
must surely love such writings — or how should they last so 
long ? ” She laughed and shook her bright head archly. 
“ Ghiffonnier ! Point du tout ! Monsieur les divines pen- 
sees que vous avez donne au monde ne sont pas des chif- 
fons.^^ 

Beau smiled again, and offered her his arm. “ Let me 
find you a chair ! ” he said. “It will be rather a difficult 
matter, — still I can but try. You will be fatigued if 3-011 
stand too long.” And he moved through the swa3ing 
crowd, with her little gloved hand resting lightly on his 
coat-sleeve, — w.iile Marcia Van Clupp and her mother ex- 
changed looks of wonder and dismay. The “ fisherwoman ” 
could speak French, — moreover, she could speak it with a 
wonderfully sofr and perfect accent, — the “ person ” had 
studied Homer and Shakespeare, and w^as conversant with 
the best literature, — and, bitterest sting of all, the “ peasant ” 
could give every woman in the room a lesson in deportment, 
grace, and perfect taste in dress. Eveiy costume looked 
tawd}^ beside her richly flowing velvet draperies — eveiy low 
bodice became indecent compared with the modesty of that 
small square opening at Thelma’s white throat — an open- 
ing just sufficient to displa3^ her collar of diamonds — and 
every figure seemed either dumpy and awkward, too big or 
too fat, or too lean and too lanky — when brought into con- 
trast with her statuesque outlines. 

The die was cast, — the authority of Beau Lovelace was 
nearly suprem in fashionable and artistic circles, and from 
the moment he was seen devoting his attention to the “ new 
beauty,” excit d Tvhispers began to flit from mouth to 
mouth, — “ She will be the rage this season I ” — “ We must 
ask her to come to us ! ” — ask Lad}^ Winsleigh to in- 
troduce us I ” — “ She must come to our house I ” and so on. 
And Lady Winsieigh was neither blind nor deaf — she saw 
and heard plainly enough that her reign was over, and in 
her secret soul she was furious. The “ common farmer’s 
daughter ” w^as neither vulgar nor uneducated — and she 
was surpassingly lovely — even Lady Winsleigh could not 
deny so plain and absolute a fact. But her ladyship was a 
woman of the world, and she perceived at once that Thelma 


290 


THELMA. 


was not. Philip had married a creature with the bodily 
loveliness of a goddess and the innocent soul of a child — 
and it was just that child-like, pure soul looking serenely 
out of Thelma’s eyes that had brought the long-forgotten 
blush of shame to Clara Winsleigh’s cheek. But that feel- 
ing of self-cpntempt soon passed — she was no better and no 
worse than other women of her set, she thought — after all, 
what had she to be ashamed of? Nothing, except — except 
— perhaps, her “ little affair ” with “ Lennie.” A new emo- 
tion now stirred her blood — one of malice and hatred, 
mingled with a sense of outraged love and ungratified pas- 
sion — for she still admired Philip to a foolish excess. Her 
dark eyes flashed scornfully as she noted the attitude of Sir 
Francis Lennox, — he was leaning against the marble man- 
tel-piece, stroking his moustache with one hand, absorbed 
in watching Thelma, who, seated in an eas}^ chair which 
Beau Lovelace had found for her, was talking and laughing 
gaily with those immediately around her, a group which 
increased in size every moment, and in which the men were 
most predominant. 

“ Fool I ” muttered Lady Winsleigh to herself, apostro- 
phizing “ Lennie ” -in this uncomplimentary manner. 
“ Fool ! I wonder if he thinks I care ! He may play hired 
laqquey to all the women in London if he likes I He looks 
a prig compared to Philip ! ” 

And her gaze wandered, — Philip was standing by his 
wife, engaged in an animated conversation with Lord 
Winsleigh. They were all near the grand piano — and Lad 3 r 
Clara, smoothing her vexed brow, swept her ruby velvets 
gracefully up to that quarter of the room. Before she 
could speak, the celebrated Herr Machtenklinken con- 
fronted her with some sternness. 

“ Your ladyshib vill do me ze kindness to remember,” he 
said, loftily, “ zat I am here to blay I Zere has been no 
obbort unity — ze biano could not make itself to be heard in 
zis fery moch noise. It is bossible your ladyshib shall re- 
quire not ze music zis efening ? In zat case 1 shall take 
my fery goot leave.” 

Lady Winsleigh raised her e^^es with much supercilious- 
ness. 

As 3 'ou please,” she said cooll 3 ^ “ If you are so indif- 
ferent to your advantages — then all I can say is, so am 1 1 
You are, perhaps, known on the Continent, Herr Macliten- 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


291 


klinken, — ^but not here — and I think you ought to be more 
grateful for my influence.” 

So saying, she passed on, leaving the luckless pianist in 
a state of the greatest indignation. 

“ Gott in Himmel ! ” he gasped, in a sort of infuriated 
sotto voce. “ Ze Emberor himself would not have speak to 
me so I I come here as a favor — her ladyshib do not ofler 
me one pfenning., — ach ! ze music is not for such beoble 1 
I shall brefer to blay to bigs I Zere is no art in zis coun- 
try I ” 

And he began to make his way out of the room, when he 
was overtaken by Beau Lovelace, who had followed him in 
haste. 

“ Where are you off to, Hermann ? ” he asked good- 
naturedly. “We want j^ou to play. There is a lady here 
who heard you in Paris quite recently — she admires you 
immensely. Won’t you come and be introduced to her?” 

Herr Machtenklinken paused, and a smile softened his 
hitherto angry countenance. 

“ You are fery goot, Mr. Lofelace,” he remarked — “and I 
would do moch for you — but her ladyshib understands me 
not — she has ofiend me — it is better I should take my 
leave.” 

“ Oh, bother her ladyship I ” said Beau lightly. “ Come 
along, and give us something in your best style.” 

So saying, he led the half-reluctant artist back to the 
piano, where he was introduced to Thelma, who gave him 
so sweet a smile that he was fairly dazzled. 

“ It is you who play Schumann so beautifully,” she said. 
“ My husband and I heard you at one of Lamoureux’s con- 
certs in Paris. I fear,” and she looked wistfully at him, 
“ that you would think it very rude and selfish of me if I 
asked you to play just one little piece ? Because, of 
course, you are here to enjoy yourself, and talk to your 
friends, and it seems unkind to take you away from 
them ! ” 

A strange moisture dimmed the poor German’s eyes. 
This was the first time in England that the “ celebrate ” 
had been treated as a friend and a gentleman. Up to this 
moment, at all the “ at homes ” and “ assemblies,” be had 
not been considered as a guest at all, — he was an “ artist,” 
“ a good pianist,” — “ a man who had played before the Em- 
peror of Germany ” — and he was expected to perform for 
nothing, and be grateful for the “ influence ” exercised on 


292 


THELMA. 


his behalf— influence which as yet had not put one single 
extra guinea in his pocket. Now, here was a great lady 
almost apologizing for asking him to play, lest it should 
take him away from his “friends”! His heart swelled 
with emotion and gratitude — the poor fellow had no 
“ friends ” in London, except Beau Lovelace, who was kind 
to him, but who had no power in the musical world, — and 
as Thelma’s gentle voice addressed him, he could have 
knelt and kissed her little shoe for her sweet courtesy and 
kindness. 

“ Miladi,” he said, with a profound reverence, “ I will 
blay for you with bleasure, — it will be a joy for ze music 
to make itself beautiful for you ! ” 

And with this fantastic attempt at a compliment, he 
seated himself at the instrument and struck a crashing 
chord to command silence. 

The hum of conversation grew louder than ever — and to 
Thelma’s surprise Lady Winsleigh seated herself by her 
and began to converse. Herr Machtenklinken struck an- 
other chord, — in vain ! The deafening lamor of tongues 
continued, and Lady Winsleigh asked Thelma with much 
seeming interest if the scenery was very romantic in Nor- 
way ? 

The girl colored deeply, and after a little hesitation, said 

“ Excuse me, — I would rather not speak till the music is 
over. It is impossible for a great musician to think his 
thoughts out properly unless there is silence. Would it 
not be better to ask every one to leave ofl‘ talking while 
this gentleman plays ? ” 

Clara Winsleigh looked amused. “ My dear, you don’t 
know them,” she said carelessly. “ They would think me 
mad to propose such a thing 1 There are alwa3^s a few who 
listen.” 

Once more the pianist poised his hands over the keys oi 
the instrument, — Thelma looked a little troubled and 
grieved. Beau Lovelace saw it, and acting on a sudden 
impulse, turned towards the chattering crowds, and, hold- 
ing up his hand, called, “ Silence, please ! ” 

There was an astonished hush. Beau laughed. “ We 
want to hear some music,” he said, with the utmost cool- 
ness. “ Conversation can be continued afterwards.” He 
then nodded cheerfully towards Herr Machtenklinken, who, 
inspired by this open encouragement, started olf like a race- 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


293 


horse into one of the exquisite rambling preludes of 
Chopin. Gradually, as he played, his plain face took upon 
itself a noble, thoughtful, rapt expression, — his wild eyes 
softened, — his furrowed, frowning brow smoothed, — and, 
meeting the grave, rare blue eyes of Thelma, he smiled. 
His touch grew more and more delicate and tender — from 
the prelude he wandered into a nocturne of plaintive and 
exceeding melancholy, which h played wdth thrilling and 
exquisite pathos — anon, he glided into one of those dream- 
ily joyous yet sorrowful mazurkas, that remind one of 
bright flowers growing in wild luxuriance over lonely and 
forsaken graves. The “ celebrate ” had reason to boast of 
himself — he was a perfect master of the instrument, — and 
as his fingers closed on the final chord, a hearty burst of 
applause rewarded his efforts, led by Lovelace and Lorimer. 
He responded by the usual bow, — but his real gratitude 
w'as all for Thelma. For her he had played his best — and 
he had seen tears in her lovely e3’es. He felt as proud of 
her appreciation as of the ring he had received from the 
Tsar, — and bent low over the fair hand she extended to 
him. 

“ You must be very happ}^,” she said, “ to feel all those 
lovely" sounds in your heart I I hope I shall see and hear 
3^011 again some day, — I thank 3^011 so very much for the 
pleasure you have given me ! ” 

Lady Winsleigh said nothing — and she listened to 
Thelma’s w^ords with a sort of contempt. 

“ Is the girl half-witted ? ” she thought. “ She must be, 
or she would not be so absurdl3^ enthusiastic 1 The man 
pla3^s well, — but it is his profession to play well — it’s no good 
praising these sort of people, — they are never grateful, and 
they alwa3's impose upon 3^011.'’ Aloud she asked Sir 
Philip — 

“ Does Lady Errington play ? ” 

“ A little,” he answered. “ She sings.” 

At once there was a chorus of inanely polite voices round 
the piano, “ Oh, do sing. Lady Errington ! Please, give us 
one song ! ” and Sir Francis Lennox, sauntering up, fixed 
his languorous gaze on Thelma’s face, murmuring, “ You 
will not be so cruel as to refuse us such delight ? ” 

“ But, of course not ! ” answered the girl, greatly sur- 
prised at all these unnecessaiy entreaties. “ I am alwa3^s 
pleased to sing.” And she drew off her long loose gloves 
and seated herself at the piano without the least affectation 


294 


THELMA, 


of reluctance. Then, glancing at her husband with a bright 
smile, she asked, “ What song do you think will be best^ 
Philip ? ” 

“ One of those old Norse mountain-songs,” he answered. 

She played a soft minor prelude — there was not a sound 
in the room now — everybody pressed towards the piano, 
staring with a curious fascination at her beautiful face and 
diamond-crowned hair. One moment — and her voice, in all 
its passionate, glorious fullness, rang out with a fresh 
vibrating tone that thrilled to the very heart — and the 
foolish crowd that gaped and listened was speechless, 
motionless, astonished, and bewildered. 

A Norse mountain-song was it ? How strange, and 
grand, and wild ! George Lorimer stood apart — his e3^es 
ached with restrained tears. He knew the melody well — 
and up before him rose the dear solemnity of the Alten- 
guard hills, the glittering expanse of the Fjord, the dear 
old farmhouse behind its cluster of pines. Again he saw 
Thelma as he had seen her first — clad in her plain white 
gown, spinning in the dark embrasure of the rose-wreathed 
window — again the words of the self-destroyed Sigurd came 
back to his recollection, “ Good things may come for others 
' — but for you the heavens are empty ! ” He looked at her 
now, — Philip’s wife — in all the splendor of her rich attire ; — 
she was lovelier than ever, and her sweet nature was as yet 
unspoilt by all the wealth and luxury around her. 

“ Good God I what an infeqno she has come into ! ” he 
thought vaguely. “ How will she stand these people when 
she gets to know them? The Yan Clupps, the Rush- 
Marvelles, and others like them, — and as for Clara Wins- 

leigb ” He turned to study her ladyship attentively. 

She was sitting quite close to the piano — her eyes were cast 
down, but the rubies on her bosom heaved quickly and rest- 
lessly, and she furled and unfurled her fan impatiently. “ I 
shouldn’t wonder,” he went on meditating gravely, “ if she 
doesn’t try and make some mischief somehow. She looks 
it.” 

At that moment Thelma ceased singing, and the room 
rang with applause. Herr Machtenklinken was overcome 
with admiration. 

“ It is a voice of heaven ! ” he said in a rapture. 

The fair singer was surrounded with people. 

“ I hope,” said Mrs. Van Clupp,with her usual ill-bred 
eagerness to ingratiate herself with the titled and wealthy, 


TEE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


295 


I hope you will come and see me, Lady Errington ? I am 
at home every Friday evening to my friends.” 

“ Oh yes,” said Thelma, simply. “ But I am not your 
friend yet ! When we do know each other better I will 
come. We shall meet each other many times first, — and 
then you will see if you like me to be your friend. Is it 
not so ? ” • 

A scarcely concealed smile reflected itself on the faces of 
all who heard this naive, but indefinite acceptance of Mrs. 
Van Clupp’s invitation, while Mrs. Yan Clupp herself was 
somewhat mortified, and knew not what to answer. This 
Norwegian girl was evidently quite ignorant of the usages 
of polite society, or she would at once have recognized the 
fact that an “ at home ” had nothing whatsoever to do with 
the obligations of friendship — besides, as far as friendship 
was concerned, had not Mrs. Yan Clupp tabooed several of 
her own blood-relations and former intimate acquaintances ? 

... for the very sensible reason that while she had grown 
richer, they had grown poorer. But now Mrs. Rush-Mar- 
velle sailed up in all her glory, with her good-natured smile 
and matronly air. She was a privileged, person, and she 
put her arm round Thelma’s waist. 

“ You must come to me, my dear,” she said with real 
kindness — her motherly heart had warmed to the girl’s 
beauty and innocence, — “ I knew Philip when he was quite 
a boy. He will tell you what a dreadfully old woman I 
am I You must try to like me for his sake.” 

Thelma smiled radiantly. “ I always wish to like 
Philip’s friends,” she said frankly. “ I do hope I shall 
please you ! ” 

A pang of remorse smote Mrs. Rush-Marvelle’s heart as 
she remembered how loth she had been to meet Philip’s 
“ peasant ” wife, — she hesitated, — then, yielding to her warm 
impulse, drew the girl closer and kissed her fair rose-tinted 
cheek. 

“ You please everybody, my child,” she said honestly. 
‘ Philip is a lucky man I Now I’ll say good night, for it is 
getting late, — I’ll write to you to-morrow and fix a day for 
you to come and lunch with me.” 

“ But you must also come and see Philip,” returned 
Thelma, pressing her hand. 

‘‘ So I will — so I will I ” and Mrs. Rush-Marvelle nodded 
beamingly, and made her way up to Lady Winsleigh, say- 


296 


THELMA. 


ing, “ Bye-bye, Clara I Thanks for a most charming even 
ing 1 ” 

Clara pouted. “ Going already, Mimsey ? ” she queried, 
— then, in a lower tone, she said, “ Well I what do you think 
of her ? ” 

“ A beautiful child — no more I ” answered Mrs. Marvelle, 
— then, studying with some gravity the brilliant brunette 
face before her, she added in a whisper, “ Leave her alone, 
Clara, — don’t make her miserable I You know what 1 
mean ! It wouldn’t take much to break her heart.” 

Clara laughed harshly and pla 3 ^ed with her fan. 

“ Dear me, Mimsey I . . . you are perfectly outrageous I 
Do you think I’m an ogress ready to eat her up ? On the 
contrary, I mean to be a friend to her.” 

Mrs. Marvelle still looked grave. 

“ I’m glad to hear it,” she said ; “ only some friends are 
worse than declared enemies.” 

Lady Winsleigh shrugged her shoulders. 

“ Go along, Mimsey, — go home to bed ! ” she exclaimed 
impatiently. “ You are inlense ! I hate sentimental phil- 
osophy and copy-book platitudes ! ” She laughed again 
and folded her hands with an air of mock penitence, “ There I 
I didn’t mean to be rude ! Good-night, dear old darling I ” 

“ Good-night, Clara I ” and Mrs. Marvelle, summoning 
her timid husband from some far corner, where he had re- 
mained in hiding, took her departure with much stateliness. 

A great many people were going down to supper by this 
time, but Sir Philip was tired of the heat and glare and 
noise, and whispered as much to Thelma, who at once ad- 
vanced to bid her hostess farewell. 

“ Won’t you have some supper ? ” inquired her ladyship. 
“ Don’t go yet I ” 

But Thelma was determined not to detain her husband a 
moment longer than he wished — so Lady Winsleigh, seeing 
remonstrances were of no avail, bade them both an effusive 
good-night. 

“ We must see a great deal of each other 1 ” she said, 
pressing Thelma’s hands w^armly in her own : “ I hope we 
shall be quite dear friends I ” 

“ Thank 3 ^ 011 1 ” said Thelma, “ I do hope so too, if j^ou 
wish it so much. Good-night, Lord Winsleigh ! ” 

“ Let me escort you to your carriage,” said her noble host, 
at once offering her his arm. 

“ And allow me to follow,” added Beau Lovelace, slip- 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY, 


2§7 


ping his arm through Errington’s, to whom he whispered^ 
“ How dare you, sir I How dare you be such a provokingly 
happy man in this miserable old world ? ” Errington 
laughed — and the little group had just reached the door ot 
the drawing-room when Thelma suddenly turned with a look 
of inquiry in her eyes. 

“ Where is Mr. Lorimer ?” she said. “ I have forgotten 
to say good-night to him, Philip.” 

“Here I am. Lady Errington,” and Lorimer sauntered 
forward with rather a forced smile, — a smile which alto- 
gether vanished, leaving his face strangel}^ pale, as she 
stretched out her hand to him, and said laughingly — 

“You bad Mr. Lorimer I Where were you? You know 
it would make me quite unhappy not to wish you good- 
night. Ah, 3^011 are a very naughty brother I ” 

“ Come home with us, George,” said Sir Philip eagerly. 
“ Do, there’s a good fellow ! ” 

“ I can’t, Phil I ” answered Lorimer, almost pathetically. 
“ I can’t to-night — indeed, I can’t ! Don’t ask me! ” And he 
wrung his friend’s hand hard, — and then bravely met 
Thelma’s bright glance. 

“ Forgive me 1 ” he said to her. “ I know I ought to have 
presented myself before — I’m a dreadfully lazy fellow, you 
know ! Good-night I ” 

Thelma regarded him steadfastly. 

“ You look, — what is it you call yourself sometimes — 
seedy she observed. “Not well at all. Mind you come 
to us to morrow 1 ” 

He promised — and then accompanied them down to their 
carriage — he and Beau Lovelace assisting to cover Thelma 
with her fur cloak, and being the last to shake hands with 
Sir Philip as he sprang in beside his wife, and called to the 
coachman “Home!” The magic word seemed to effect the 
horses, for they started at a brisk trot, and within a couple 
of minutes the carriage was out of sight. It was a warm 
' star-lit evening, — and as Lorimer and Lovelace re-entered 
Winsleigh House, Beau stole a side-glance at his silent 
companion. 

“ A plucky fellow ! ” he mused ; “ I should sa^^ he’d die 
game. Tortures won’t wring his secret out of him.” Aloud 
he said, “ I say, haven’t we had enough of this ? Don’t let 
us sup here — nothing but unsubstantial pastiy and claret- 
cup — the latter abominable mixture would kill me. Come 
on to the Club, will you ? ” 


298 


THELMA. 


Lorimer gladly assented — they got their over-coats from 
the officious Briggs, tipped him handsomely, and departed 
arm in arm. The last glimpse they caught of the Winsleigh 
festivities was Marcia Van Clupp sitting on the stairs, pol- 
ishing off with much gusto the wing and half-breast of a 
capon, — while the mild Lord Masherville stood on the step 
just above her, consoling his appetite with a spoonful of 
tepid yellow jelly. He had not been able to secure any 
capon far himself — he had been frightened away by the 
warning cry of “ Ladies first I ” shouted forth by a fat gen- 
tleman, who was on guard at the head of the supper-table, 
and who had already secreted five plates of different edibles 
for his own consumption, in a neat corner behind the win- 
dow-curtains. Meanwhile, Sir Philip Bruce-Errington, 
proud, happy, and triumphant, drew his wife into a close 
embrace as they drove home together, and said, “ You were 
the queen of the evening, my Tffielma ! Have you enjoyed 
yourself? ” 

“ Oh, I do not call that enjoyment ! ” she declared. “ How 
is it possible to enjoy anything among so many strangers ? 

“ Well, what is it ? ” he asked laughingly. 

She laughed also. “ I do not know indeed what it is ! ” 
she said. “ I have never been to anything like it before. 
It did seem to me as if all the people were on show for some 
reason or other. And the gentlemen did look very tired — 
there was nothing for them to do. Even you, my boy I 
You made several very big yawns ! Did you know that ? ” 

Philip laughed more than ever. “ I didn’t know it, my 
pet I” he answered; “but I’m not surprised. Big yawns 
are the invariable result of an ‘ at home.’ Do you like Beau 
Lovelace ? ” 

“Very much,” she answered readily. “But, Philip, I 
should not like to have so many friends as Lady Winsleigh. 
I thought friends were rare ? ” 

“ So they are I She doesn’t care for these people a bit. 
They are mere acquaintances.” 

“ Whom does she care for then ? ” asked Thelma suddenly. 
“ Of course I mean after her husband. Naturally she loves 
him best.” 

“Naturally,” and Philip paused, adding, “she has her 
son — Ernest — he's a fine bright boy — he was not there to- 
night. You must see him some day. Then I think her 
favorite friend is Mrs. Rush-Marvelle.” 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


S99 


** I do like that lady too,” said Thelma. “ She spoke very 
kindly to me and kissed me.” 

“ Did she really ! ” and Philip smiled. “ I think she was 
more to be congratulated on taking the kiss than you in re- 
ceiving it I But she’s not a bad old soul, — only a little too 
fond of money. But, Thelma, whom do you care for most ? 
You did tell me once, but I forget I ” 

She turned her lovely face and star-like eyes upon him, 
and, meeting his laughing look, she smiled. 

“ How often must I tell you ! ” she murmured softly. “ I 
do think you will never tire of hearing I You know that it 
is you for whom I care most, and that all the world would 
be empty to me without you ! Oh, my husband — my dar- 
ling I do not make me try to tell you how much I love you I 
I cannot — my heart is too full ! ” 

The rest of their drive homeward was very quiet — there 
are times when silence is more eloquent than speech. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

“ A small cloud, so slight as to he a mere speck ou the fair blue 
eky, was all the warning we received.” — P liny. 

After that evening great changes came into Thelma’s 
before peaceful life. She had conquered her enemies, or so 
it seemed, — society threw down all its barricades and rushed 
to meet her with open arms. Invitations crowded upon her, 

often she grew tired and bewildered in the multiplicity of 

them all. London life wearied her, — she preferred the em- 
bowered seclusion of Errington Manor, the dear old house 
in green-wooded Warwickshire. But the “ season ” claimed 
her, — its frothy gaieties were deemed incomplete without 
her — no “ at home ” was considered quite “ the ” thing un- 
less she was present. She became the centre of a large and 
ever-widening social circle, — painters, poets, novelists, wits, 
savantSj and celebrities of high distinction crowded her 
rooms, striving to entertain her as well as themselves with 
that inane small talk and gossip too often practiced by the 
wisest among us, — and thus surrounded, she began to learn 
many puzzling and painful things of which in her old Nor- 
wegian life, she had been happily ignorant. 

For instance, she had once imagined that all the men and 
women of culture who followed the higher professions must 
perforce be a sort of “ Joyous Fraternity,” superior to 


800 


THELMA. 


other mortals not so gifted, — and, under this erroneous im- 
pression, she was at first eager to know some of the so- 
called “ great ” people who had distinguished themselves in 
literature or the fine arts. She had fancied that they must 
of necessity be all refined, S3unpathetic, large-hearted, and 
noble-minded — alas I how grievously'' was she disappointed I 
She found, to her sorrow, that the tree of modern Art bore 
but few wholesome roses and many cankered buds — that the 
“ Joy^ous Fraternity ” were not joy^ous at all — but, on the 
contrary, inclined to dy^spepsia and discontentment. She 
found that even poets, whom she had fondly deemed were 
the angel-guides among the children of this earth, — were 
most of them painfully conceited, selfish in aim and limited 
in thought, — moreover, that they were often so empty of all 
true inspiration, that they were actually able to hate and 
envy one another with a sort of womanish spite and temper, 
— that novelists, professing to be in sympathy with the 
heart of humanity^, were no sooner brought into contact 
one with another, than they plainly showed by look, voice, 
and manner, the contempt they entertained for each other’s 
work, — that men of science were never so happy as when 
trying to upset each other’s theories ; — that men of religious 
combativeness were alway’S on the alert to destroy each 
other’s creeds, — and that, in short, there was a very general 
tendency to mean jealousies, miserable heart-burnings and 
utter weariness ail round. 

On one occasion, she, in the sweetest simplicity^, invited 
two lady authoresses of note to meet at one of her “ at 
homes,” . . . she welcomed both the masculine-looking 

ladies with a radiant smile, and introduced them, sayung 
gently, — “You will be so pleased to know each other I ” 
But the stony stare, stitf nod, portentous sniff, and scornful 
smile with which these two eminent females exchanged cold 
greetings, were enough to daunt the most sympathetic 
hostess that ever lived — and when they^ at once retired to 
different corners of the room and sat apart with their backs 
turned to one another for the remainder of the evening, 
their attitude was so uncompromising that it was no wonder 
the gentle Thelma felt quite dismayed and wretched at the 
utter failure of the rencontre. 

“ They would uoU)e sociable ! ” she afterwards complained 
to Lady Winsleigh. “ They tried, to be as rude to each 
other as they could ! ” 

Lady Winsleigh laughed. “Of course I ” she said. 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


301 


“ What else did you expect I But if 3’ou want some fun, 
ask a young, pretty, and brilliant authoress (there are a few 
such) to meet an old, ugly and dowdy one (and there are 
many such), and watch the dowdy one’s face I It will be a 
delicious study of expression, I assure j^ou ! ” 

But Thelma would not try this delicate experiment, — in 
fact, she began rather to avoid literary people, with the ex- 
ception of Beau Lovelace. His was a genial, sympathetic 
nature, and, moreover, he had a winning charm of manner 
which few could resist. He was not a bookworm, — he was 
not, strictly speaking, a literary man, — and he was entirely 
indifferent to public praise or blame. He was, as he him- 
self expressed it, “ a servant and worshipper of literature,” 
and there is a wide gulf of difference between one who 
serves literature for its own sake and one who uses it basely 
as a tool to serve himself. 

But in all her new and varied experiences, perhaps Thel- 
ma was most completely bewildered by the women she met. 
Her simple Norse beliefs in the purity and gentleness of 
womanhood were startled and outraged, — she could not un- 
derstand London ladies at all. Some of them seemed to 
have no idea beyond dress and show, — others looked upon 
their husbands, the lawful protectors of their name and 
fame, with easy indifference, as though they were mere bits 
of household furniture, — others, having nothing better to 
do, “ went in ” for spiritualism, — the low spiritualism that 
manifests itself in the turning of tables and moving of side- 
boards — not the higher spiritualism of an improved, per- 
fected, and saint-like way of life — and these argued wildly 
on the theory of matter passing through matter, to the ex- 
tent of declaring themselves able to send a letter or box 
through the wall without making a hole in it, — and this 
with such obstinate gravity as made Thelma fear for their 
reason. T^ien there were the women-atheists, — creatures 
who ]iad voluntarily crushed all the sweetness of the sex 
within them — foolish human flowers without fragrance, that 
persistently turned away their faces from the sunlight and 
denied its existence, preferring to wither, profitless, on the 
diy stalk of their own theory there were the “ platform- 
women,” unnatural products of an unnatural age, — there 
were the great ladies of the aristocracy who turned with 
scorn from a case of real necessity, and yet spent hundreds 
of pounds on private theatricals wherein they might have 
the chance of displaying themselves in extravagant cos- 


302 


THELMA. 


tumes, — and there were the “ professional ” beauties, who^ 
if s ddenly deprived of elegant attire and face-cosmetics, 
turned out to be no beauties at all, but very ordinary, unin- 
telligent persons. 

“ What is the exact meaning of the term, ‘ professional 
beauty ' ? ” Thelma had asked Beau Lovelace on one occa- 
sion. “ I suppose it is some very poor beautiful woman 
who takes money for showing herself to the public, and 
having her portraits sold in the shops ? And who is it that 
pays her ? ” 

Lovelace broke into a laugh. “ IJpon my word. Lady 
Errington, — you have put the matter in a most original but 
indubitably correct light I Who pays the ‘ professional 
beauty,’ you ask ? Well, in the case of Mrs. Smith-Gres- 
ham, whom you met the other day, it is a certain Duke who 
pays her to the tune of several thousands a year. When 
he gets tired of her, or she of him, she’ll find somebody 
else — or perhaps she’ll go on the stage and swell the list of 
bad amateurs. She’ll get on somehow, as long as she can 
find a fool ready to settle her dressmaker’s bill.” 

“ I do not understand I ” said Thelma, — and her fair brows 
drew together in that pained grave look that was becoming 
rather frequent with her now. 

And she began to ask fewer questions concerning the 
various strange phases of social life that puzzled her, — why, 
for instance, religious theorists made so little practical use 
of their theories, — why there w^ere cloudy-eyed eccentrics 
who admired the faulty drawing of Watts, and the common- 
place sentence-writing of Walt Whitman, — why members 
of Parliament talked so much and did so liftle, — why new 
poets, however nobly inspired, were never accepted unless 
they had influential friends on the press, — why painters al- 
ways married heir models or their cooks, and got heartily 
ashamed of them afterwards, — and why people all round 
said so many things they did not mean. And confused by 
the general insincerity, she clung, — poor child ! — to Lady 
Winsleigh, who had the tact to seem what she was not, — 
and the cleverness to probe into Thelma’s nature and find 
out how translucently clear and pure it was — a perfect well 
of sweet water, into which one drop of poison, or better 
still, several drops, gradually and insidiously instilled, 
might in time taint its flavor and darken its brightness. 
For if a woman have an innocent, unsuspecting soul as del- 
icate as the curled cup of a Nile lily, the more easily will it 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


303 


droop and wither in the heated grasp of a careless, cruel 
hand. And to this flower-crushing task Lady Winsleigh 
set herself, — partly for malice pretense against Errington, 
whose coldness to herself in past days had wounded her 
vanity, and partly for private jealousy of Thelma’s beauty 
and attractiveness. 

Within a short time she had completely won the girl’s 
confidence and affection, — Sir Philip, forgetting his former 
suspicions of her, was touched and disarmed by the attach- 
ment and admiration she openly displayed towards his 
young wife, — she and Thelma were constantly seen to- 
gether, and Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, far-sighted as she gener- 
ally was, often sighed doubtfully and rubbed her nose in 
perplexity as she confessed she “ couldn’t quite understand 
Clara.” But Mrs. Rush-Marvelle had her hands full of other 
matters, — she was aiding and. abetting Marcia Van Clupp to 
set traps for that mild mouse Lord Masherville, — and she 
was too much absorbed in this difficult and delicate business 
to attend to anything else just then. Otherwise, it is pos- 
sible she might have scented danger for Thelma’s peace of 
mind, and being good-natured, might have warded it off be- 
fore it approached too closely, — but, like policeman who 
are never within call when wanted, so friends are seldom at 
hand when their influence might be of real benefit. 

The Van Clupps were people Thelma could not get on 
with at all — she tried to do so because Mrs. Rush-Marvelle 
had assured her they were “ charming ” — and she liked Mrs. 
Marvelle sufficiently well to be willing to please her. But, 
in truth, these rich and vulgar Yankees seemed to her mind 
less to be esteemed than the peasants of the Altenfjord, who 
in many instances possessed finer tact and breeding than 
old Van Clupp, the man of many dollars, whose father had 
been nothing but a low navvy, but of whom he spoke now 
with smirking pride as a real descendant of the Pilgrim 
Fathers. An odd thing it is, by the way, how fond some 
Americans are of tracing back their ancestry to these virtu- 
ous old gentlemen ! The Van Clupps were of course not 
the best types of their country — they were of that class 
who, because they have money, measure everything by the 
money-standard, and hold even a noble poverty in utter 
contempt. Poor Van Clupp ! It was sometimes pitiable to 
see him trying to be a gentleman — “ going in ” for “ style ” 

to an excess that was ludicrous, — cramming his house 

with expensive furniture like an upholsterer’s show-room,— 


304 


THEL3IA. 


drinking his tea out of pure Sevres, with a lofty ignorance 
of its beauty and value, — dressing his wife and daughter 
like shilling fashion-plates, and having his portrait taken 
in precisely the same attitude as that assumed by the Duke 
of Wrigglesbury when his Grace sat to the same photog- 
rapher I It was delicious to hear him bragging of his pil- 
grim ancestor, — while in the same breath he would blandly 
sneer at certain “ poor gentry ” who could trace back their 
, lineage to Cceur de Lion! But because the Erringtons 
were rich as well as titled persons. Van Clupp and his be- 
longings bent the servile knee before them, flattering 
Thelma with that ill-judged eagerness and zealous persist- 
ency which distinguish inborn vulgarity, and which, far 
from pleasing her, annoyed and embarrassed her because 
she could not respond sincerely to such attentions. 

There were many others too, not dollar-crusted Ameri- 
cans, whose excessive adulation and ceaseless compliment 
vexed the sincere, frank spirit of the girl, — a spirit fresh 
and pure. as the wind blowing over her own Norse moun- 
tains. One of these was Sir Francis Lennox, that fashion- 
able young man of leisure, — and she had for him an instinc- 
tive, though quite unreasonable aversion. He was courtesy 
itself — he spared no pains to please her. Yet she felt as if 
his basflisk brown eyes were always upon her, — he seemed 
to be ever at hand, ready to watch over her in trifles, such 
as the passing of a cup of tea, the offering of her wrap, — the 
finding of a chair, — the holding of a fan, — he was always on 
the alert, like a remarkably well-trained upper servant. 
She could not, without rudeness, reject such unobtrusive, 
humble services, — and yet — they rendered her uncomfort- 
able, though she did not quite know why. She ventured to 
mention her feeling concerning him lo her friend Lady 
Winsleigh, who heard her timid remarks with a look on her 
face that was not quite pleasant. 

“ Poor Sir Francis ! ” her ladyship said with a slight, 
mocking laugh. “ He’s never happy unless he plays puppy- 
dog ! Don’t mind him, Thelma 1 ‘ He won’t bite, I assure 
you, — he means no harm. It’s only his little way of mak- 
ing himself agreeable ! ” 

George Lorimer, during this particular “ London sea- 
son,” fled the field of action, and went to Paris to stay with 
Pierre Duprez. He felt that it was dangerous to confront 
the fair enemy too often, for he knew in his own honest 
(leart that his passion for Thelma increased each time he 


IHE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


305 


saw her — so, he avoided her. She missed him very much 
from her circle of intimates, and often went to see his 
mother, Mrs. Lorimer, one of the sweetest old ladies in the 
world, — who bad at once guessed her son’s secret, but, like 
a prudent dame, kept it to herself. There were few young 
women as pretty and charming as old Mrs. Lorimer, with 
her snow-white parted hair and mild blue eyes, and voice as 
cheery as the note of a thrush in spring-time. After 
Lady Winsleigh, Thelma liked her best of all her new 
friends, and was fond of visiting her quiet little house in 
Kensington, — for it was very quiet, and seemed like a 
sheltered haven of rest from the great rush of frivolity and 
folly in which the fashionable world delighted. 

And Thelma was often now in need of rest. As the sea- 
son drew towards its close, she found herself strangely tired 
and dispirited. The life she was compelled to lead was all 
^insulted to her nature — it was artificial and constrained, — 
and she was often unhappy. Why? Why, indeed 1 She 
did her best, — but she made enemies everywhere. Again, 
why ? Because she had a most pernicious, — most unpleas- 
ant habit of telling the truth. Like Socrates, she seemed 
to say — “ If any man should appear to me not to possess 
virtue, but to pretend that he does, 1 shall reproach him.” 
This she expressed silently in face, voice, and manner, — and, 
like Socrates, she might have added that she went about 
“ perceiving, indeed, and grieving and alarmed that she was 
making herself odious.” For she discovered, by degrees, 
that many people looked strangely upon her— that others 
seemed afraid of her — and she continually heard that she 
was considered “ eccentric.” So she became more reserved 
— even cold, — she was content to let others argue about 
trifles, and air their whims and follies without offering an 
opinion on any side. 

And by-and-by the first shadow began to sweep over the 
fairness of her married life. It happened at a time when 
she and her husband were not quite so much together, — so- 
ciety and its various claims had naturally separated them a 
little, but now a question of political ambition separated 
them still more. Some well-intentioned friends had per- 
suaded Sir Philip to stand for Parliament — and this idea no 
sooner entered his head, than he decided with impulsive 
ardor that he had been too long without a “ career,” — and a 
“ career ” he must have in order to win distinction for his 
wife’s sake. Therefore, summoning his secretary, Neville, 


306 


THELMA. 


to Ms aid, he plunged headlong into the seething, turgid 
waters of English politics, and shut himself up in his li- 
brary day after day, studying blue-books, writing and an- 
swering letters, and drawing up addresses, — and with the 
general proneness of the masculine mind to attend to one 
thing only at a time, he grew so absorbed in his work that 
his love for Thelma, though all unchanged and deep as ever, 
fell slightly into the background of his thoughts. Not that 
he neglected her, — he simply concerned himself more with 
other things. So it happened that a certain indefinable 
sense of loss weighed upon her,— a vague, uncomprehended 
solitude began to encompass her, — a solitude even more 
keenly felt when she was surrounded by friends than when 
she was quite alone, — and as the sweet English June drew 
to its end, she grew languid and listless, and her blue eyes 
often filled with sudden tears. Her little watch-dog, Britta, 
began to notice this, and to wonder concerning the reason 
of her mistress’s altered looks. 

“ It is this dreadful London,” thought Britta. “ So hot 
and stifling — there’s no fresh air for her. And all this going 
about to balls and parties and shows — no wonder she is tired 
out ! ” 

But it was something more than mere fatigue that made 
Thelma’s eyes look sometimes so anxious, so gravely medi- 
tative and earnest. One day she seemed so much abstracted 
and lost in painful musings that Britta’s loving heart ached, 
and she watched her for some moments without venturing 
to say a word. At last she spoke out bravel^^ — 

“ Frdken ! ” — she paused, — Thelma seemed not to hear 
her. “ Frdken ! — has anything vexed or grieved you to- 
day ? ” 

Thelma started nervously. “ Y exed me — grieved me ? ” 
she repeated. “ No, Britta — why do you ask ? ” 

“ You look very tired, dear Frdken,” continued Britta 
gently. “ You are not as bright as you were when we first 
came to London.” 

Thelma’s lips quivered. “ I — I am not well, Britta,” she 
murmured, and suddenly her self-control gave way, and she 
broke into tears. In an instant Britta was kneeling by her, 
coaxing and caressing her, and calling her by every endear- 
ing name she could think of, while she wisely forbore from 
asking any more questions. Presently her sobs grew 
calmer, — she rested her fair head against Britta’s shoulder 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


307 


and smiled faintly. At that moment a light tap was heard 
outside, and a voice called — 

“ Thelma 1 Are you there ? ” 

Britta opened the door, and Sir Philip entered hurriedly 
and smiling — but stopped short to survey his wife in dis- 
may. 

“ Why, my darling I ” he exclaimed distressfully. “ Have 
you been crying ? ” 

Here the discreet Britta retired. 

Thelma sprang to her husband and nestled in his arms. 

“ Philip, do not mind it,” she murmured. “ I felt a little 
sad — it is nothing! But tell me — you do love me? You 
will never tire of me ? You have always loved me, I am 
sure ? ” 

He raised her face gently with one hand, and looked at 
her in surprise. 

“ Thelma — what strange questions from you ! Love you ? 
Is not every beat of my heart for you ? Are you not my 
life, my joy — my everything in this world?” And he 
pressed her passionately in his arms and kissed her. 

“ You have never loved any one else so much? ” she whis- 
pered, half abashed. 

“ Never ! ” he answered readily. “ What makes you ask 
such a thing ? ” 

She was silent. He looked down at her flushing cheeks 
and tear-wet lashes attentively. 

“ You are fanciful to-da3^, my pet,” he said at last. 
“ You’ve been tiring yourself too much. You must rest. 
You’d better not go to the Brilliant Theatre to-night — it’s 
only a burlesque, and is sure to be vulgar and noisy. We’ll 
stop at home and spend a quiet evening together — shall 
we? ” 

She raised her eyes half wistfully and smiled. “ I should 
like that very, very much, Philip ! ” she murmured ; “ but 
you know we did promise Clara to go with her to-night. 
And as we are so soon to leave London and return to War- 
wickshire, I should not like to disappoint her.” 

“ You are verj’’ fond of Clara ? ” he asked suddenly. 

“ Very! ” She paused and sighed slightl}^ “ She is so 
kind and clever — much more clever than 1 can ever be — 
and she knows many things about the world which I do 
not. And she admires you so much, Philip ! ” 

“ Poes she indeed ? ” Philip laughed and colored a little. 


308 


THELMA. 


“ Very good of her, I’m sure I And so you’d really like to 
go to the Brilliant to-night ? ” 

“ I think so,” she said hesitatingly. “ Clara says it will 
be very amusing. And you must remember how much I 
enjoyed ‘ Faust ’ and ‘ Hamlet.’ ” 

Errington smiled. “ You’ll find the Brilliant perform- 
ance very different to either,” he said amusedly. “ You 
don’t know what a burlesque is like I ” 

“ Then I must be instructed,” replied Thelma, smiling 
also, “ I need to learn many things. I am veiy ignorant ! ” 
“ Ignorant ! ” and he swept aside with a caressing touch 
the clustering hair from her broad, noble brow. “ My 
darling, you possess the greatest wisdom — the wisdom of 
innocence. I would not change it for all the learning of the 
sagest philosphers I ” 

“ You really mean that ? ” she asked half timidly. 

“ I really mean that ! ” he answered fondly. “ Little 
sceptic ! As if I would ever sa}" anything to you that I 
did not mean I I shall be glad when we’re out of London 
and back at the Manor — then I shall have ou all to myself 
again — for a time, at least.” 

She raised her eyes full of sudden joy, — all traces of her 
former depression had disappeared. 

“And 7 shall have you!''' she said gladly, “ And we 
shall not disappoint Lady Winsleigh to-night, Philip — I am 
not tired — and I shall be pleased to go to the theatre,” 

“ All right ! ” responded Philip cheerfully. “ So let it 
be I Only I don’t believe you’ll like the piece, — though it 
certainly won’t make you cry. Yet I doubt if it will make 
you laugh, either. However, it will be a new experience 
for you.” 

And a new experience it decidedly was, — an experience, 
too, which brought some strange and perplexing results to 
Thelma of which she never dreamed. 

She went to the Brilliant, accompanied by Lady Wins- 
leigh and her husband, — Neville, the secretary, making the 
fourth in their box ; and during the first and second scene 
of the performance the stage effects were so pretty and the 
dancing so graceful that she nearly forgot the bewildered 
astonishment she had at first felt at the extreme scantiness 
of apparel worn by the ladies of the ballet. They repre- 
sented birds, bees, butterflies, and the other winged deni- 
zens of the forest-world, — and the tout-ensemble was so 
fairy-like and brilliant with swift movement, light, and 


TBE LAND OF 3I0CKERY. 


309 


color that the eye was too dazzled and confused to note 
objectionable details. But in the third scene, when a plump, 
athletic young woman leaped on the stage in the guise of a 
humming-bird, with a feather tunic so short that it was a 
mere waist-belt of extra width, — a flesh-colored bodice about 
three inches high, and a pair of blue wings attached to her 
fat shoulders, Thelma started and half rose from her seat in 
dismay, while a hot tide of color crimsoned her cheeks. 
She looked nervously at her husband. 

“ I do not think this is pleasant to see,” she said in a low 
tone. “ Would it not be best to go away ? I — I think I 
would rather be at home.” 

Lady Winsleigh heard and smiled, — a little mocking 
smile. 

“ Don’t be silly, child ! ” she said. “ If you leave the 
theatre just now you’ll have every one staring at you. 
That woman’s an immense favorite — she is the success of 
the piece. She’s got more diamonds than either you or I.” 

Thelma regarded her friend with a sort of grave wonder, 
— but said nothing in reply. If Lady Winsleigh liked the 
performance and wished to remain, why, — then politeness 
demanded that Thelma should not interfere with her pleas- 
ure by taking an abrupt leave. So she resumed her seat, 
but withdrew herself far behind the curtain of the box, in a 
corner where the stage was almost invisible to her eyes. 
Her husband bent over her and whispered — 

“ I’ll take you home if you wish it, dear I only say the 
word.” 

She shook her head. 

“ Clara enjoys it I ” she answered somewhat plaintively. 
“ We must stay.” 

Philip was about to address Lady Winsleigh on the sub- 
iect, when suddenly Neville touched him on the arm. 

“ Can I speak to you alone for a moment. Sir Philip ? ” he 
said in a strange, hoarse whisper. “ Outside the box — 
away from the ladies — a matter of importance I ” 

He looked as if he were about to faint. He gasped rather 
than spoke these words ; his face was white as death, and 
his eyes had a confused and bewildered stare. 

“ Certainly I ” answered Philip promptly, though not 
without an accent of surprise, — and, excusing their absence 
briefly to his wife and Lady Winsleigh, they left the 
box together. Meanw'hile the well-led “ Humming-Bird ” 
was capering extravagantly before the footlights, pointing 


310 


THELMA. 


lier toe in the delighted face of the stalls and singing in a 
in a loud, coarse voice the following refined ditty — 

“ Oh my ducky, oh my darling, oh my duck, duck, duck ! 

If you love me you must have a little pluck, pluck, pluck ! 

Come and put your arms around me, kiss me once, twice, thrice, 
For kissing may be naughty, but, by Jingo! it is nice ! 

Once, twice, thrice ! 

Nice, nice, nice ! 

Bliss, bliss, bliss’ 

Kiss, kiss, kiss ! 

Kissing may be naughty, but it’s nice ! ” 

There were several verses in this graceful poem, and each 
one was hailed with enthusiastic applause. The “ Humming- 
Bird ” was triumphant, and when her song was concluded 
she executed a startling pas-seul full of quaint and aston- 
ishing surprises, reaching her superbest climax when she 
backed off the stage on one portly leg, — kicking the other 
in regular time to the orchestra. Lady Winsleigh laughed, 
and leaning towards Thelma, who still sat in her retired 
corner, said with a show of kindness — 

“ You dear little goose ! You must get accustomed to 
this kind of thing — it takes with the men immensely. Why, 
even your wonderful Philip has gone down behind the 
scenes with Neville — you may be sure of that I ” 

The startled, pitiful astonishment in the girl’s face 
might have touched a less callous heart than Lady Wins- 
leigh’s, — but her ladyship was prepared for it and only 
smiled. 

“ Gone behind the scenes ! To see that dreadful woman I ” 
exclaimed Thelma in a low pained tone. “ Oh no, Clara I 
He would not do such a thing. Impossible I ” 

“ Well, my dear, then where is he ? He has been gone 
quite ten minutes. Look at the stalls — all the men are out 
of them I I tell you Violet Vere draws everybody of the 
male sex after her I At the end of all her ‘ scenes ’ she has 
a regular reception — for men only — of course I Ladies not 
admitted!” And Clara Winsleigh laughed. “ Don’t look 
so shocked for heaven’s sake, Thelma, — you don’t want 
your husband to be a regular nincompoop ! He must have 
his amusements as well as other people. I believe you want 
him to be like a baby, tied to your apron-string I You’ll 
find that an awful mistake, — he’ll get tired to death of you, 
sweet little Griselda though you are ! ” 

Thelma’s face grew very pale, and her hand closed more 
tightly on the fan she held. 


TRE LARD OP MOCKERY. 


311 


“ You have said that so very, very often lately, Clara ! ” 
she murmured. “ You seem so sure that he will get tired 
— that all men get tired. I do not think you know Philip 
— he is not like any other person I have ever met. And 
why should he go behind the scenes to such a person as 
Yiolet Vere ’’ 

At that moment the box-door opened with a sharp click, 
and Errington entered alone. He looked disturbed and 
anxious. 

“ Neville is not well,” he said abruptly, addressing his 
wife. “ I’ve sent him home. He wouldn’t have been able 
to sit this thing out.” And he glanced half angrily towards 
the stage — the curtain had just gone up again and dis- 
played the wondrous Violet Vere still in her “ humming- 
bird ” character, swinging on the branch of a tree and 
(after the example of all humming-birds) smoking a cigar 
with brazen-faced tranquillity. 

I am sorry he is ill,” said Thelma gently. “ That is why 
you were so long away ? ” 

“Was I long?” returned Philip somewhat absently. 
“ I didn’t know it. I went to ask a question behind the 
scenes.” 

Lady Winsleigh coughed and glanced at Thelma, whose 
eyes dropped instantly. 

“ I suppose you saw Violet Vere ? ” asked Clara. 

“ Yes, I saw her,” he replied briefly. He seemed irrita- 
ble and vexed — moreover, decidedly impatient. Presently 
he said — 

“ Lady Winsleigh, would you mind very much if we left 
this place and went home? I’m rather anxious about Ne- 
ville — he’s had a shock. Thelma doesn’t care a bit about 
this piece, I know, and if you are not very much ab- 
sorbed ” 

Lady Winsleigh rose instantly, with her usual ready 
grace. 

“ My dear Sir Philip ! ” she said sweetly. “ As if I would 
not do anything to oblige you ! Let us go by all means 1 
These burlesques are extremelj^ fatiguing ! ” 

He seemed relieved by her acquiescence — and smiled that 
rare sweet smile of his, which had once played such havoc 
with her ladyship’s sensitive feelings. They left the theatre, 
and were soon on their way home, though Thelma was 
rather silent during the drive. They dropped Lady Wins- 
leigh at her own door, and after they had bidden her a Qor- 


312 


1 


THELMA. 


dial good night, and were going on again towards home, 
Philip, turning towards his wife, and catching sight of her 
face by the light of a street-lamp, was struck by her extreme 
paleness and weary look. 

“ You are very tired, my darling, I fear? ” he inquired, 
tenderly encircling her with one arm. “ Lean your head 
on my shoulder — so ! ” 

She obeyed, and her hand trembled a little as he took 
and held it in his owm warm, strong clasp. 

“We shall soon be home ! ” he added cheerily. “ And I 
think we must have no more theatre-going this season. 
The heat and noise and glare are too much for you.’’ 

“ Philip,” said Thelma suddenly. “ Did you really go be- 
hind the scenes to-night ? ” 

“ Yes, I did,” he answered readily. “ I was obliged to 
go on a matter of business — a very disagreeable and un- 
pleasant matter too.” 

“ And what was it ? ” she asked timidl}^, yet hopefully. 

“ My pet, I can’t tell you I I wish I could 1 It’s a 
secret I’m bound not to betray — a secret which involves 
the name of another person who’d be wretched if I were to 
mention it to you. There, — don’t let us talk about it any 
more I ” 

“ Very well, Philip,” said Thelma resignedly, — but 
though she smiled, a sudden presentiment of evil depressed 
her. The figure of the vulgar, half-clothed, painted creat- 
ure known as Violet Vere rose up mockingly before her 
eyes, — and the half-scornful, half-jesting words of Lady 
Winsleigh rang persistentl}^ in her ears. 

On reaching home, Philip went straight to Neville’s little 
study and remained with him in earnest conversation for a 
long time — while Thelma went to bed, and lay restless 
among her pillows, puzzling her brain with strange fore- 
bodings and new and perplexing ideas, till fatigue over- 
powered her, and she fell asleep with a few tear-drops wet 
on hei’ lashes. And that night Philip wondered why his 
sweet wife talked so plaintively in her sleep, — though he 
smiled as he listened to the drift of those dove-like mur- 
murings. 

“No one knows how my boy loves me,” sighed the 
dreaming voice. “ No one in all the world! How should 
he tire ? Love can never tire 1 ” 

Meanwhile, Lady Winsleigh, in the seclusion of her own 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


313 


boudoir, penned a brief note to Sir Francis Lennox as fol- 
lows — 

“ Dear old Lennie, 

“ I saw you in the stalls at the theatre this evening, 
though you pretended not to see me. What a fickle creat- 
ure you are I not that I mind in the very least. The vir- 
tuous Bruce-Errington left his saintly wife and me to talk 
little platitudes together, while he, decorously accompanied 
by his secretary, went down to pay court to Violet Vere. 
How stout she is getting I Why don’t you men advise her 
to diet herself? I know you also went behind the scenes 
— of course, you are an ami intime — promising boy you are, 
to be sure ! Come and lunch with me to-morrow, if you’re 
not too lazy. 

“ Yours ever, 

“ Clara.” 

She gave this missive to her maid, Louise Renaud, to 
post, — that faithful attendant took it first to her own 
apartment where she ungummed the envelope neatly by 
the aid of hot water, and read every word of it. This was 
not an exceptional action of hers, — all the letters received 
and sent by her mistress were subjected to the same pro- 
cess, — even those that were sealed with wax she had a 
.means of opening in such a manner that it was impossible 
to detect that they had been tampered with. 

She was a very clever French maid was Loviise, — one ot 
the cleverest of her class^- Fond of mischief, ever suspi- 
cious, always on the alert for evil, utterly unscrupulous and 
malicious, she was an altogether admirable attendant for a 
lady ot rank and fashion, her skill as a coiffeur and needle- 
woman always obtaining for her the wages she so justly 
deserved. When ■will wealthy women reared in idleness , 
and luxury learn the folly of keeping a trained spy at- ^ 
tached to their persons ? — a spy wdiose pretended calling is 
merely to arrange dresses and fripperies (half of which she 
invariably steals), but whose real delight is to take note of 
all her mistress’s incomings and outgoings, tempers and 
tears — to watch her looks, her smiles and frowns, — and to 
start scandalous gossip concerning her in the servants’ hall, 
from whence it graduallj^ spreads to the society newspapers 
— for do you think these estimable and popular journals are 
never indebted for their “ reliable ” information to tlie 
“ honest ” statements of discharged footman or valet ? 


314 


THELMA. 


Briggs, for instance, bad tried bis band at a paragraph or 
two concerning the “ Upper Ten,” and with the aid of a 
dictionary, bad succeeded in expressing himself quite 
smartly, though in ordinary conversation his h’s were often 
lacking or superfluous, and his grammar doubtful. 
Whether he persuaded any editor to accept his literary ef- 
forts is quite another matter — a question to which the an- 
swer must remain for ever enveloped in mystery, — but if 
he did appear in print (it is only an if I)he must have been 
immensely gratified to consider that his statements were 
received with gusto by at least half aristocratic London, 
and implicitly believed as having emanated from the “ best 
authorities.” And Louise Renaud having posted her mis- 
tress’s letter at last, went down to visit Briggs in his pri- 
vate pantry, and to ask him a question. 

“ Tell me,” she said rapidly, with her tight, prim smile. 

“ You read the papers — you will know. What lady is that 
of the theatres — Yiolet Yere ? ” 

Briggs laid down the paper he was perusing and surveyed 
her with a superior air. 

“ What, Yi ? ” he exclaimed with a lazy wink. “ Yi, of 
the Hopperer-Buft'? You’ve ’erd of ’er surely, Mamzelle ? 
No ? There’s not a man (as is worth calling a man) about 
town, as don’t know 'er ! Dukes, Lords, an’ Royal ’Igh- 
nesses — she’s the style for ’em ! Mag-ni-ficent creetur ! all 
legs and arms ! I won’t deny but wot I ’ave an admiration 
for ’er myself — I bought a ’arf-crown portrait of ’er quite 
recently.” And Briggs rose slowly and searched in a , 
mysterious drawer which he invariably kept locked. 

“ ’Ere she is, as large as life, Mamzelle,” he continued, 
exhibiting a “ promenade ” photograph of the actress in 
question. “ There’s a neck for you I There’s form ! Yi, 
my dear, I saloot you! ” and he pressed a sounding kiss on 
the picture — “ you’re one in a million 1 Smokes and drinks 
like a trooper, Mamzelle 1 ” he added admiringly, as Louise 
Renaud studied the portrait attentively. “ But with all ’er 
advantages, you would not call ’er a lady. No — that term 
would be out of the question. She is wot we men would 
call an enchantin’ female ! ” And Briggs kissed the tips of 
his fingers and waved them in the air as he had seen certain 
foreign gentlemen do when enthusiastic. 

“ I comprehend,” said the French maid, nodding emphati- 
cally. “ Then, if she is so, what makes that i)roud Seigneur 
Bruce-Errington visit her ? ” Here she shook her finger at 


tHE LAND OF MOCKERY, 


315 


Briggs. “ And leave his beautiful lady wife, to go and see 
her ? ” Another shake. “ And that miserable Sieur Len- 
nox to go also ? Tell me that ! ” She folded her arms, like 
Napoleon at St. Helena, and smiled again that smile which 
was nothing but a sneer. Briggs rubbed his nose conteim 
platively. 

“ Little Francis can go ennywheres,” he said at last. 
“ He’s laid out a good deal of tin on Yi and others of ’er 
purfession. You cannot make enny-think of that young 
feller but a cad. I would not accept ’im for my pussonal 

attendant. No! But Sir Philip Bruce-Errington ” 

He paused, then continued, “ Air you sure of your facts, 
Mamzelle ? ” 

Mamzelle was so sure, that the bow on her cap threatened 
to come off with the determined wagging of her head. 

“ Well,” resumed Briggs, “ Sir Philip may, like bothers, 
consider it ‘ the thing ’ you know, to ’ang on as it were to 
Vi. But I ’ad thought ’im superior to it. Ah! poor 
’uman natur, as ’Uxley says ! ” and Briggs sighed. “ Lady 
Errington is a sweet creetur, Mamzelle — a very sweet 
creetur ! Has a rule I find the merest nod of my ’ed a 
sufficient saloot to a woman of the aristocracy — but for ’er, 
Mamzelle, I never fail to show ’er up with a court bow ! ” 
And involuntarily Briggs bowed then and there in his most 
elegant manner. Mamzelle tightened her thin lips a little 
and waved her hand expressively. 

“ She is an angel of beauty ! ” she said, “ and Miladi 
Winsleigh is jealous — Dieu I jealous to death of her! 
She is innocent too — like a baby — and she worships her 
husband. That is an error ! To worship a man is a great 
mistake — she will find it so. Men are not to be too much 
loved — no, no ! ” 

Briggs smiled in superb self-consciousness. “ Well, well ! 
I will not deny, Mamzelle, that it spoils us,” he said com- 
placently. “ It certainly spoils us ! ‘ When lovely woman 

stoops to folly,’ — the hold, hold story ! ” 

“ You will r-r-r-emember,” said Mamzelle, suddenly step- 
ping up very close to him and speaking with a strong 
accent, “ what I have said to-night ! Monsieur Briggs, you 
will r-remember ! There will be mees-cheef! Yes — there 
will be mees-cheef to Sieur Bruce-Errington, and when there 
is, — I — I, Louise Renaud — I know who ees at the bottom of 
eet ! 

So saying, with a whirl of her black silk dress and a fiasle 


316 


THELMA. 


of her white muslin apron, she disappeared. Briggs, left 
alone, sauntered to a looking-glass hanging on the wall and 
studied with some solicitude a pimple that had recently ap- 
peared on his clean-shaven face. 

“ Mischief !” he soliloquized. “ I des-say I Whene ver a 
lot of women gets together, there’s sure to be mischief. 
Dear creetursi They love it like the best Clicquot. 
Sprightly young pusson is Mamzelie. Knows who’s at the 
bottom of ‘ eet,’ does she ? Well — she’s not the only one as 
knows the same thing. As long as doors ’as cracks and 
key’oles, it ain’t in the least difficult to find out wot goes on 
inside boo-dwars and drorin ’-rooms. And ’ighly interestin’ 
things one ’ears now and then — ’ighly interestin’ I ” 

And Briggs leered suavely at his own reflection, and then 
resumed the perusal of his paper. He was absorbed in the 
piquant, highly flavored details of a particularly disgraceful 
divorce case, and he was by no means likely to disturb him- 
self from his refined enjoyment for any less important 
reason than the summons of Lord Winsleigh’s bell, which 
rang so seldom that, when it did, he made it a point of 
honor to answer it immediately, for, as he said — 

“ His lordship knows wot is due to me, and I knows wot 
is due to ’im — therefore it ’appens we are able to ekally re- 
spect each other I ” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“ If thou wert honorable, 

Thou would’st have told this tale for virtue, not 
For such an end thou seek’st ; as base, as strange. 

Thou wrong’st a gentleman who is as far 
From thy report, as thou from honor.” 

Cymheline. 

Summer in Shakespeare Land I Summer in the heart of 
England — summer in wooded Warwickshire, — a summer 
brilliant, warm, radiant with flowers, melodious with the 
songs of the heaven-aspiring larks, and the sweet, low trill 
of the forest-hidden nightingales. Wonderful and divine it 
is to hear the wild chorus of nightingales that sing beside 
Como in the hot languorous nights of an Italian July — 
wonderful to hear them maddening themselves with love 
and music, and almost splitting their slender throats wdth 
the bursting bubbles of burning song,— but there is some- 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


317 


thing, perhaps, more dreamily enchanting still, — to hear 
them warbling less passionately but more plaintively, be- 
neath the drooping leafage of those grand old trees, some 
of which may have stretched their branches in shadowy 
benediction over the sacred head of the grandest poet in 
the world. Why travel to Athens, — why wander among 
the Ionian Isles for love of the classic ground ? Surely, 
though the clear-brained old Greeks were the founders of 
all noble literature, they have reached their fulminating 
point in the English Shakespeare, — and the Warwickshire 
lanes, decked simply with hawthorn and sweet-briar roses, 
through which Mary Arden walked leading her boy-angel 
by the hand, are sacred as any portion of that earth once 
trodden by the feet of Homer and Plato. 

So, at least, Thelma thought, when, released from the 
bondage of London social life, she found herself once more 
at Errington Manor, then looking its loveliest, surrounded 
with a green girdle of oak and beech, and set off by the 
beauty of velvety lawns and terraces, and rose-gardens in 
full bloom. The depression from which she had suffered 
fell away from her completely — she grew light-hearted as a 
child, and flitted from room to room, singing to herself for 
pure gladness. Philip was with her all day now, save for 
a couple of hours in the forenoon which he devoted to 
letter-writing in connection with his Parliamentary aspira- 
tions, — and Philip was tender, adoring and passionate as 
lovers may be, but as husbands seldom are. They took 
long walks together through the woods, — they often ram- 
bled across the fragrant fields to Anne Hathaway’s cottage, 
which was not very far away, and sitting down in some se- 
questered nook, Philip would pull from his pocket a volume 
of the immortal Plays, and read passages aloud in his fine 
mellow voice, while Thelma, making posies of the meadow 
flowers, listened entranced. Sometimes, when he was in a 
more business-like humor, he would bring out Cicero’s 
Orations, and after pondering over them for a while would 
talk very grandly about the way in which he meant to 
speak in Parliament. 

“ They want dash and fire there,” he said, “ and these 
qualities must be united with good common sense. In ad- 
dressing the House, you see, Thelma, one must rouse and 
interest the men — not bore them. You can’t expect fellows 
to pass a Bill if you’ve made them long for their beds all 
the time you’ve been talking about it,” 


318 


THELMA. 


Thelma smiled and glanced over his shoulder at “ Cicero’s 
Orations.” 

“ And do you wish to speak to them like Cicero, my 
boy ? ” she said gently. “ But I do not think you will lind 
that possible. Because when Cicero spoke it was in a dif 
ferent age and to very different people — people who were 
glad to learn how to be wise and brave. But if you were 
Cicero himself, do you think you would be able to impress 
the English Parliament ? ” 

“ Why not, dear ? ” asked Errington with some fervor. 
“ I believe that men, taken as men, pur et simple^ are the 
same in all ages, and are open to the same impressions. 
Why should not modern Englishmen be capable of receiv- 
ing the same lofty ideas as the antique Romans, and acting 
upon them ? ” 

“ Ah, do not ask me why,” said Thelma, with a plaintive 
little shake of her head — “ for I cannot tell you ! But re- 
member how many members of Parliament we did meet in 
London — and where were their lofty ideas? Philip, had 
they any ideas at all, do you think ? There was that very 
fat gentleman who is a brewer, — well, to hear him talk, 
would you not think all England was for the making of 
beer ? And he does not care for the country unless it con- 
tinues to consume his beer I It was to that very man I 
said something about Hamlet., and he told me he had no in- 
terest for such nonsense as Shakespeare and play-going — 
his time was taken up at the ‘ ’Ouse.’ You see, he is a 
member of Parliament — yet it is evident he neither knows 
the language nor the literature of his country ! And there 
must be many like him, otherwise so ignorant a person 
would not hold such a position — and for such men, what 
w’ould be the use of a Cicero ? ” 

Philip leaned back against the trunk of the tree under 
which they were sitting, and laughed. 

‘'You may be right, Thelma, — I dare say you are. 
There’s certainly too much beer represented in the House — 
I admit that. But, after all, trade is the great moving- 
spring of national prosperity, — and it would hardly be fair 
to refuse seats to the very men who help to keep the 
country going.” 

“ I do not see that,” said Thelma gravely, — “ if those 
men are ignorant, why should they have a share in so im- 
portant a thing as Government ? They may know all about 
beer, and wool, and iron, — but perhaps they can only judge 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY, 


319 


what is good for themselves, not what is best for the whole 
country, with all its rich and poor. I do think that only 
the wisest scholars and most intelligent persons should be 
allowed to help in the ruling of a great nation.” 

“ But the people choose their own rulers,” remarked Er- 
rington reflectively. 

“ Ah, the poor people ! ” sighed Thelma. “ They know 
so very little, — and they are taught so badly I I think they 
never do quite understand what they do want, — they are the 
same in all histories, — like little children, they get be- 
wildered and frightened in any trouble, and the wisest 
heads are needed to think for them. It is, indeed, most 
cruel to make them puzzle out all difflculty for themselves I ” 

“ What a little sage you are, my pet I ” laughed Philip, 
taking her hand on which the marriage-ring and its accom- 
panying diamond circlet, glistened brilliantly in the warm 
sunlight. “ Do you mean to go in for politics ? ” 

She shook her head. “ No, indeed I That is not woman’s 
work at all. The only way in which I think about such 
things, is that I feel the people cannot all be wise, — and 
that it seems a pity the wisest and greatest in the land 
should not be chosen to lead them rightly.” 

“ And so under the circumstances, you think it’s no use 
my trying to pose as a Cicero ? ” asked her husband 
amusedly. She laughed — with a very tender cadence in 
her laughter. 

“ It would not be worth your while, my boy,” she said. 
“ You know I have often told you that I do not see any 
great distinction in being a member of Parliament at all. 
What will you do? You will talk to the fat brewer per- 
haps, and he will contradict you — then other people will 
get up and talk and contradict each other, — and so it will 
go on for days and days — meanwhile the country remains 
exactly as it was, neither better nor worse, — and all the 
talking does no good I It is better to be out of it, — here 
together, as we are to-day.^’ 

And she raised her dream}^ blue eyes to the sheltering 
canopy of green leaves that overhung them — leaves thick- 
clustered and dewy, through which the dazzling sky peeped 
in radiant patches. Philip looked at her, — the rapt ex- 
pression of her upward gaze, — the calm, untroubled sweet- 
ness of her fair fiice, — were such as might well have suited 
one of Raffaellc’s divinest angels. His heart beat quickly 
— he drew closer to her, and put his arm round her. 


320 


THELMA. 


“ Your eyes are looking at the sky, Thelma,” he whis- 
pered. “ Do you know what that is ? Heaven looking into 
heaven I And do you know which of the two heavens 
I prefer ? ” She smiled, and turning, met his ardent gaze 
with one of equal passion and tenderness. 

“ Ah, you do know 1 ” he went on, softly kissing the side 
of her slim white throat. “ I thought you couldn’t possibly 
make a mistake 1 ” He rested his head against her shoul- 
der, and after a minute or tw'o of lazy comfort, he resumed. 
“ You are not ambitious, my Thelma 1 You don’t seem to 
care whether your husband distinguishes himself in the 
^ ’Ouse,’ as our friend the brewer calls it, or not. In fact, I 
don’t believe you care for anything save — love I Am I not 
right, my wife ? ” 

A wave of rosy color flushed her transparent skin, and 
her eyes filled with an earnest, almost pathetic languor. 

“ Surely of all things in the world,” she said in a low 
tone, — “ Love is best ? ” 

To this he made prompt answer, though not in words — 
his lips conversed with hers, in that strange, sweet lan- 
guage which, though unwritten, is everywhere comprehen- 
sible, — and then they left their shady resting-place and 
sauntered homeward hand in hand through the warm fields 
fragrant with wild thyme and clover. 

Many happy days passed thus with these lovers — for lov- 
ers they still were. Marriage had for once fulfilled its real 
and sacred meaning — it had set Love free from restraint, 
and had opened all the gateways of the only earthly para- 
dise human hearts shall ever know, — the paradise of perfect 
union and absolute sympathy with the one thing beloved on 
this side eternity. 

The golden hours fled by all too rapidly,— and towards 
the close of August there came an interruption to their fe- 
licity. Courtesy had compelled Briice-Errington and his 
wife to invite a few friends down to visit them at the Manor 
before the glory of the summer-time was past, — and first 
among the guests came Lord and Lady Winsleigh and their 
bright boy, Ernest. Her ladyship’s maid, Louise Renaud, 
of course, accompanied her ladyship, — and Briggs was also 
to the fore in the capacity of Lord Winsleigh ’s personal at- 
tendant. After these, George Lorimer arrived — he had 
avoided the Erringtons all the season,— but he could not 
very well refuse the pressing invitation now given him 
without seeming churlish,— then came Beau Lovelace, for a 


THE LAND OF 3I0CKEBY. 


321 


few days only, as with the commencement of September he 
would be off as usual to his villa on the Lago di Como. 
Sir Francis Lennox, too, made his appearance frequently in 
a casual sort of way — he “ ran down,” to use his own ex- 
pression, now and then, and made himself very agreeable, 
especially to men, by whom he was well liked for his invari- 
able good-humor and extraordinary proficiency in all sports 
and games of skill. Another welcome visitor was Pierre 
Duprez, lively and sparkling as ever, — he came from Paris 
to pass a fortnight with his “ cher Pliil-eep,” and make mer- 
riment for the whole party. His old admiration for Britta 
had by no means decreased, — he was fond of waylaying that 
demure little maiden on her various household errands, and 
giving her small posies of jessamine and other sweet-scented 
blossoms to wear just above the left-hand corner of her 
apron-bib, close to the place where the heart is supposed 
to be. Olaf Giildrnar had been invited to the Manor at this 
period, — Errington wrote many urgent letters, and so did 
Thelma, entreating him to come, — for nothing would have 
pleased Sir Philip more than to have introduced the fine old 
Odin worshipper among his fashionable friends, and to have 
heard him bluntly and forcibly holding his own among 
them, putting their faint and languid ways of life to shame 
by his manly, honest, and vigorous utterance. But Giild- 
mar had only just returned to the Altenljord after nearly a 
year’s absence, and his hands were too full of work for him 
to accept his son-in-law’s invitation. 

“ The farm lands have a waste and dreary look,” he wrote, 
“ though I let them to a man who should verily have known 
how to till the soil trodden by his fathers — and as for the 
farmhouse, ’twas like a hollow shell that has lain long on 
the shore and become brown and brittle — for tbou knowest 
no human creature has entered there since we departed. 
However, Valdemar Svensen and I, for sake of company, 
have resolved to dwell together in it, and truly we have 
nearly settled down to the peaceful contemplation of our 
past days, — so Philip, and thou, my child Thelma, trouble 
not concerning me. I am hale and heart}', the gods be 
thanked, — and may live on in hope to see you both next 
spring or summer-tide. Your happiness keeps this old man 
young — so grudge me not the news of your delights wherein 
I am myself delighted.” 

One familiar figure was missing from tlie Manor house- 
liold, — that of Edward Neville, Since the night at the 

21 


322 


THELMA. 


Brilliant, when he had left the theatre so suddenly, and 
gone home on the plea of illness, he had never been quite 
the same man. He looked years older — he was strangely 
nervous and timid — and he shrank away from Thelma as 
though he were some guilt}' or tainted creature. Surprised 
at this, she spoke to her husband about it, — but he, hur- 
riedly, and with some embarrassment, advised her to “ let 
him alone ” — his “ nerves were shaken ” — his “ health was 
feeble ” — and that it would be kind on her part to refrain 
from noticing him or asking him questions. So she re- 
frained — but Neville’s behavior puzzled her all the same. 
When they left town, he implored, almost piteously, to be 
allowed to remain behind, — he could attend to Sir Philip’s 
business so much better in London, he declared, and he had 
his way. Errington, usually fond of Neville’s society, made 
no attempt whatever to persuade him against his will, — so 
he stayed in the half-shut-up house in Prince’s Gate through 
all the summer heat, poring over parliamentary documents 
and pamphlets, — and Philip came up from the country once 
a fortnight to visit him, and transact any business that 
might require his personal attention. 

On one of the last and hottest days in August, a grand 
garden-party wae given at the Manor. All the county peo- 
ple were invited, and they came eagerly, though, before 
Thelma’s social successes in London, they had been reluc- 
tant to meet her. Now, they put on their best clothes, and 
precipitated themselves into the Manor grounds like a flock 
of sheep seeking land on which to graze, — all wearing their 
sweetest propitiatory smirk — all gushing forth their ad- 
miration of “ that darling Lady Errington ” — all behaving 
themselves in the exceptionally funny manner that county 
people affect, — people who are considered somebodies in the 
small villages their big houses dominate, — but who, when 
brought to reside in London, become less than the minnows 
in a vast ocean. These good folks were not only anxious to 
see Lady Errington — they wanted to say they had seen ber, * 
— and that she had spoken to them^ so that they might, in 
talking to their neighbors, mention it in quite an easy, 
casual way, such as — “ Oh, I was at Errington Manor the 

other day, and Lady Errington said to me' .” Or — “ Sir 

Philip is such a charming man ! I was talking to his lovely 

wife, and he asked me ” etc., etc. Or — “ You’ve no idea 

what lai-ge strawberries they grow at the Manor ! Lady 
Errington showed me some that were just ripening — mag- 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


323 


nificent 1 ” And so on. For in truth this is “ a mad world, 
my masters,” — and there is no accounting for the inex- 
pressibly small follies and mean toadyisms of the people in 
it. 

Moreover, all the London guests who were visiting Thelma 
came in for a share of the county magnates’ servile admira- 
tion. The}^ found the Winsleighs “ so distingue ” — Master 
Ernest instantly became “ that dear boy I ” — Beau Love- 
lace was “ so dreadfully clever, you know I ” — and Pierre 
Duprez “ quite too delightful I ” 

The grounds looked very brilliant — pink-and-white mar- 
quees were dotted here and there on the smooth velvet 
lawns — bright flags waved from different quarters of the 
gardens, signals of tennis, archery, and dancing, — and the 
voluptuous waltz-music of a fine Hungarian band rose up 
and swayed in the air with the downward floating songs of 
the birds and the dash of fountains in full play. Girls in 
pretty light summer costumes made picturesque groups 
under the stately oaks and beeches, — gay laughter echoed 
from the leafy shrubberies, and stray couples were seen 
sauntering meditatively through the rose-gardens, treading 
on the fallen scented petals, and apparently too much ab- 
sorbed in each other to notice anything that was going on 
around them. Most of these were lovers, of course — in- 
tending lovers, if not declared ones, — in fact, Eros was very 
busy that day among the roses, and shot forth a great many 
arrows, aptly aimed, out of his exhaustless quiver. 

Two persons there were, however, — man and woman, — 
who, walking in that same rose-avenue, did not seem, from 
their manner, to have much to do with the fair Greek god, — 
they were Lady Winsleigh and Sir Francis Lennox. Her 
ladyship looked exceedingly beautiful in her clinging dress of 
Madras lace, with a bunch of scarlet poppies at her breast, 
and a wreath of the same vivid flowers in her picturesque 
Leghorn hat. She held a scarlet-lined parasol over her head, 
and from under the protecting shadow of this silken pavil- 
ion, her dark, lustrous eyes flashed disdainfully as she re- 
garded her companion. He was biting an end of his brown 
moustache, and looked anno^^ed, yet lazily amused too. 

“ Upon my life, Clara,” he observed, “ ou are really aw- 
fully down on a fellow, you know I One would think 3^ou 
never cared twopence about me ! ” 

“Too high a figure!” retorted Lady Winsleigh, with a 
hard little laugh. “ I never cared a brass farthing 1 ” 


324 


THELMA. 


He stopped short in his walk and stared at her. 

“ By Jove ! you are cool I ” he ejaculated. “ Then what 
did you mean all the time ? ” 

“ What did you mean ? ” she asked defiantly. 

He was silent. After a slight, uncomfortable pause, he 
shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 

Don’t let us have a scene I ” he observed in a bantering 
tone. “ Anything but that I ” 

“ Scene ! ” she exclaimed indignantly. “ Pray when have 
you had to complain of me on that score ? ” 

“Well, don’t let me have to complain now,” he said 
coolly. 

She surveyed him in silent scorn for a moment, and her 
full, crimson lips curled contemptuously. 

“ What a brute you are I ” she muttered suddenly between 
her set pearly teeth. 

“ Thanks, awfully I. ” he answered, taking out a cigarette 
and lighting it leisurely. “ You are really charmingly 
candid, Clara I Almost as frank as Lady Errington, only 
less polite ! ” 

“ I shall not learn politeness from you., at any rate,” she 
said, — then altering her tone to one of studied indifierence, 
she continued coldly, “ What do 3-011 want of me ? We’ve 
done with each other, as you know. I believe 3"ou wish to 
become gentleman-lacquey to Briice-Errington’s wife, and 
that you find it difficult to obtain the situation. Shall I 
give you a character ? ” 

He flushed darkly, and his eyes glittered with an evil 
lustre. 

“ Gentl3^, Clara I Draw it mild I ” he said languidly. 
“ Don’t irritate me, or I may turn crust3^ I You know, if I 
chose, I could open Bruce-Errington’s eyes rather more 
widely than you’d like with respect to the devoted affection 
you entertain for his beautiful wife.’^ She winced a little 
at this observation — he saw it and laughed, — then resumed : 
“ At present I’m really in the best of humors. The reason 
I wanted to speak to you alone for a minute or two was, 
that I’d something to say which might possibly please you. 
But perhaps you’d rather not hear it ? ” 

She was silent. So was he. He watched her closely for 
a little — noting with complacency the indignant heaving of 
her breast and the flush on her cheeks, — signs of the strong 
repression she was putting upon her rising temper. 

“ Come, Clara, you may as well be aaniable,” he said. 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY, 


325 


** I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that the virtuous Philip 
is not immaculate after all. Won’t it comfort you to think 
that he’s nothing but a mortal man like the rest of us ? . 

. . and that with a little patience your charms will most 

probably prevail with him as easily as they once did with 
me ? Isn’t that worth hearing ? ” 

I don’t understand you,” she replied curtly. 

“ Then you are very dense, my dear girl,” he remarked 
smilingly. “ Pardon me for saying so ! But I’ll put it 
plainly and in as few words as possible. The moral Bruce- 
Errington, like a great many other ‘ moral ’ men I know, 
has gone in for Violet Vere, — and I dare sa}^ you under- 
stand what that means. In the simplest language, it means 
that he’s tired of his domestic bliss and wants a change.” 

Lady Winsleigh stopped in her slow pacing along the 
gravel-walk, and raised her eyes steadily to her compan- 
ion’s face. 

“ Are you sure of this ? ” she asked. 

“ Positive ! ” replied Sir Francis, flicking the light ash 
off his cigarette delicately with his little finger. “ When 
.you wrote me that note about the Vere, I confess I had my 
suspicions. Since then they’ve been confirmed. I know 
for a fact that Errington has had several private interviews 
with Vi, and has also written her a good many letters. 
Some of the fellows in the green-room tease her about her 
new conquest, and she grins and admits it. Oh, the whole 
thing’s plain enough ! Only last week, when he went up to 
town to see his man Neville on business he called on Vi at 
her own apartments in Arundel Street, Strand. She told 
me so herself — we’re rather intimate, you know, — though 
of course she refused to mention the object of his visit. 
Honor among thieves ! ” and he smiled half mockingly. 

Lady Winsleigh seemed absorbed, and walked on like one 
in a dream. Just then, a bend in the avenue brought them 
in full view of the broad terrace in front of the Manor, 
where Thelma’s graceful figure, in a close-fitting robe of 
white silk crepe, was outlined clearly against the dazzling 
blue of the sky. Several people were grouped near her, — 
she seemed to be in animated conversation with some of 
them, and her face was radiant with smiles. Lady Win- 
sleigh looked at her, — then said suddenly in a low voice — 

“ It will break her heart ! ” 

Sir Francis assumed an air of polite surprise. “ Pardon I 
Whose heart ? ” 


320 


THELMA. 


She pointed slightly to the white figure on the terrace. 

“ Hers I Surely you must know that ? ” 

He smiled. “ Well — isn’t that precisely what you desire, 
Clara ? Though, for my part, I don’t believe in the brittle- 
ness of hearts — they seem to me to be made of exception- 
ally tough material. However, if the fair Thelma’s heart 
cracks ever so widely, I think I can undertake to mend it I ” 

Clara shrugged her shoulders. “ You 1 ” she exclaimed 
contemptuously. 

He stroked his moustache with feline care and nicety. 

“ Yes — 1 1 If not, I’ve studied women all my life for 
nothing ! ” 

She broke into a low peal of mocking laughter — turned, 
and was about to leave him, when he detained her by a 
slight touch on her arm. 

‘‘ Stop a bit I ” he said in an impressive sotto-voce. “ A 
bargain’s a bargain all the world over. If I undertake to 
keep you cognizant of Bruce-Errington’s little goings-on in 
London, — information which, I dare say, you can turn to 
good account, — you must do something for me. I ask very 
little. Speak of me to Lady Errington — make her think 
well of me, — flatter me as much as you used to do when we 
fancied ourselves terrifically in love with each other — (a 
good joke, wasn’t it !) — and, above all, make her trust me 1 
Do you understand ? ” 

“ As Red Riding-Hood trusted the Wolf and was eaten 
up for her innocence,” observed Lady Winsleigh. “ Very 
well ! I’ll do my best. As I said before, 3^011 want a char- 
acter. I’m sure I hope 3"ou’ll obtain the situation 3'ou so 
much desire ! I can state that you made yourself fairly 
useful in your last place, and that you left because your 
wages were not high enough I ” 

And with another sarcastic laugh, she moved forward 
towards the terrace where Thelma stood. Sir Francis fol- 
lowed at some little distance with no Very pleasant expres- 
sion on his features. A stealthy step approaching him 
from behind made him start nervously — it was Louise 
Renaud, who, carrying a silver tray on which soda-water 
bottles and glasses made an agreeable clinking, tripped de- 
murely past him without raising her eyes. She came di- 
rectly out of the rose-garden, — and, as she overtook her 
mistress on the lawn, that lady seemed surprised, and 
asked — 

‘‘ Where have you been, Louise ? ’’ 


TEE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


- “ Miladi was willing that I should assist in the attendance 
to-day,” replied Louise discreetly. “ I have waited upon 
Milord Winsleigh, and other gentlemen in the summer- 
house at the end of the rose-garden.” 

And with one furtive glance of her black, bead-like eyes 
at Lady Winsleigh ’s face, she made a respectful sort of 
half-curtsy and went her way. 

Later on in the afternoon, when it was nearing sunset, 
and all other amusements had given way to the delight of 
dancing on the springy green turf to the swinging music of 
the band, — Briggs, released for a time from the duties of 
assisting the waiters at the splendid refreshment-table 
(duties which were pleasantly lightened by the drinking of 
a bottle of champagne which he was careful to reserve for 
his own consumption), sauntered leisurel}’^ through the 
winding alleys and fragrant shrubberies which led to the 
most unromantic portion of the Manor grounds, — namely, 
the vegetable-garden. Here none of the butterflies of 
fashion found their way, — the suggestions offered by grow- 
ing cabbages, turnips, beans, and plump, yellow-skinned 
marrows were too prosaic for society bantams who require 
refined surroundings in which to crow their assertive 
platitudes. Yet it was a peaceful nook — and there were 
household odors of mint and thyme and sweet marjoram, 
which were pleasant to the soul of Briggs, and reminded 
him of roast goose on Christmas Day, with all its attendant 
succulent delicacies. He paced the path slowly, — the light 
of the sinking sun blazing gloriously on his plush breeches, 
silver cordons and tassels, — for he was in full-dress livery 
in honor of the fete, and looked exceedingly imposing. Now 
and then he glanced down at his calves with mild approval, 
— his silk stockings fitted them well, and thej^ had a very 
neat and shapely appearance. 

I 'ave developed,” he murmured to himself. “ There 
ain’t a doubt about it I One week of country air, and I’m a 
different man ; — the effecks of overwork ’ave disappeared. 
Flopsie won’t know these legs of mine v/hen I get back, — 
they’ve improved surprisingly.” He stopped to survey a 
bed of carrots. “ Plenty of Cressy there,” he mused. 
“ Cressy’s a noble soup, and Flopsie makes it well, — a man 
might do wuss than marry Flopsie. She’s a widder, and a 

leetle old — just a leetle old for me — but ” Here he 

sniffed delicately at a sprig of thyme he had gathered, and 
smiled consciously. Presently he perceived a small, plump, 


328 


THELMA. 


pretty figure approaching him, no other than Britta, look- 
ing particularly charming in a very smart cap, adorned 
with pink-ribbon bows, and a very elaborately frilled muslin 
apron. Briggs at once assumed his most elegant and con- 
quering air, straightened himself to his full height and 
kissed his hand to her with much condescension. She 
laughed as she came up to him, and the dimples in her 
round cheeks appeared in full force. 

“ Well, Mr. Briggs,” she said, “ are you enjoying your- 
self?” 

Briggs smiled down upon her benevolentl}^ “ I am I ” 
he responded graciously. “ I find the hair refreshing. And 
you. Miss Britta ? ” 

“ Oh, I’m very comfortable, thank you 1 ” responded 
Britta demurely, edging a little away from his arm, which 
showed an unmistakable tendency to encircle her waist, — . 
then glancing at a basket she held full of grapes, just cut 
from the hot house, she continued, These are for the sup- 
per-table. I must be quick, and take them to Mrs. Parton.” 

“ Must you ? ” and Briggs asked this question with quite 
an unnecessary amount of tenderness, then resuming his 
dignity, he observed, “ Mrs. Parton is a very worthy woman 
— an excellent ’ousekeeper. But she’li no doubt excuse you 
for lingering a little, Miss Britta — especially in my com- 
pany.” 

Britta laughed again, showing her pretty little white teeth 
to the best advantage. “ Do you think she will ? ” she said 
merrily. “ Then I’ll stop a minute, and if she scolds me 
I’ll put the blame on you 1 ” 

Briggs played with his silver tassels and, leaning grace- 
fully against a plum-tree, surveyed her with a critical eye. 

“ I was not able,” he observed, “ to see much of you in 
town. Our people were always a’ visitin’ each other, and 
yet our meetings were, as the poet says, ‘ few and far 
between.’ ” 

Britta nodded indifferently, and perceiving a particularly 
ripe gooseberry on one of the bushes close to her, gathered 
it quickly and popped it between her rosy lips. Seeing 
another equally ripe, she offered it to Briggs, w'ho accepted 
it and ate it slowly, though he had a misgiving that by so 
doing he was seriously compromising his dignit3^ He re- 
sumed his conversation. 

“ Since I’ve been down ’ere, I’ve ’ad more opportunity to 
observe you. I ’ope you will allow me to say I think very 


THE LAND OP ^lOCKERT. 


’ighly of you.” He waved his band with the elegance of a 
Sir Charles Grandison. ‘‘Very ’ighly indeed I Your 
youth is most becoming to 3'ou ! If you only ’ad a little 
more chick, there’d be nothing left to desire I ” 

“ A little more — what ? ” asked Britta, opening her blue 
eyes very wide in puzzled amusement. 

“ Chick ! ” replied Briggs, with persistent persuasive- 
ness. “ Chick, Miss Britta, is a French word much used 
by the aristocracy. Coming from Norway, an ’avin’ per- 
haps a very limited experience, you mayn’t ’ave ’erd it — but 
eddicated people ’ere find it very convenient and expressive. 
Chick means style, — the thing, the go, the fashion. For 
example, everythink your lady wears is chick I’’’’ 

“ Really ! ” said Britta, with a wandering and innocent 
air. “ How funny ! It doesn’t sound like French, at all, 
Mr. Briggs, — it’s more like English.” 

“ Perhaps the Paris accent isn’t familiar to you yet,” re- 
marked Briggs majestically. “ Your stay in the gay metrop- 
olis was probably short. Now, I ’ave been there many times 
— ah, Paris, Paris I ” he paused in a sort of ecstacy, then, 
with a side leer, continued — “ You’d ’ardly believe ’ow 
wicked I am in Paris, Miss Britta ! I am, indeed I It is 
something in the hair of the Bolly vards, I suppose I And 
the caffy life excites my nerves.” 

“ Then you shouldn’t go there,” said Britta gravely, 
though her eyes twinkled with repressed fun. “ It can’t be 
good for you. And, oh! I’m so sorry, Mr. Briggs, to think 
that you are ever wicked I ” And she laughed. 

“ It’s not for long,” explained Briggs, with a comically 
satisfied, yet penitent, look. “ It is only a sort of breaking 
out, — a fit of ’igh spirits. Hall men are so at times I It’s 
chick to run a little wild in Paris. But, Miss Britta, if 
you were with me I should never run wild I ” Here his 
arm made another attempt to get round her waist — and 
again she skillfully, and with some show of anger, avoided it. 

“ Ah, you’re very ’ard upon me,” he then observed. 
“ Very, very, ’ard! But I won’t complain, my — my dear 
gal — one day you’ll know me better ! ” He stopped and 
looked at her very intently. Miss Britta,” he said ab- 
ruptly, “ you’ve a great affection for your lady, ’aven’t 
you ? ” 

Instantly Britta’s face flushed, and she was all attention. 

“ Yes, indeed! ” she answered quickly. “ Why do you 
ask, Mr. Briggs ? ” 


S30 


TEELMA. 


Briggs rubbed his nose perplexedly. “ It is not easy to 
explain,” he said. “ To run down my own employers 
W'ouldn’t be in my line. But I’ve an idea that Clara — by 
which name I allude to my Lord Winsleigh’s lady, — is up to 
mischief. She ’ates your lady, Miss Britta — ’ates ’er like 
poison! ” 

“ Hates her I ” cried Britta in astonishment. “ Oh, you 
must be mistaken, Mr. Briggs ! She is as fond of her as 
she can be — almost like a sister to her ! ” 

“ Clara’s a fine actress,” murmured Briggs, more to him- 
self than to his companion. “ She’d beat Yiolet Yere on 
’er own ground.” liaising his voice a little, he turned gal- 
lantly to Britta and relieved her of the basket she held. 

Hallow me 1 ” he said. “ We’ll walk to the ’ouse to- 
gether. On the way I’ll explain — and you’ll judge for 
yourself. The words of the immortal bard, whose county 
we are in, occur to me as aprerpo ^ — ‘ There are more things 
in ’evil! and ’erth, ’Oratio, — than even the most devoted do- 
mestic can sometimes be aweer of.’ ” 

And gently sauntering by Britta’s side, Briggs began to 
converse in low and confidential tones, — she listened with 
strained and eager attention, — and she was soon receiving 
information that startled her and set her on the alert. 

Talk of private detectives and secret service 1 Do pri- 
vate detectives ev r discover so much as the servants of a 
man’s own household ? — servants who are aware of the 
smallest trifies, — who know the name and position of every 
visitor that comes and goes, — who easily learn to recognize 
the handwriting on every letter that arrives — who laugh 
and talk in their kitchens over things that their credulous 
masters and mistresses imagine are unknown to all the 
world save themselves, — who will judge the morals of a 
Duke, and tear the reputation of a Duchess to shreds, for 
the least, the most trilling error of conduct ! If you can 
stand well with your servants, you can stand well with the 
whole world — if not — carry yourself as haughtily as you 
may — your pride will not last long, depend upon it 1 

Meanwhile,-as Briggs and Britta strolled in the side 
paths of the shrubbery, the gay guests of the Manor were 
dancing on the lawn. Thelma did not dance, — she reclined 
in a low basket-chair, fanning herself. George Lorimer lay 
stretched in lazy length at her feet, and near lier stood her 
husband, together with Beau Lovelace and Lord Winsleigh. 
At a little distance, under the shadow of a noble beech,' sat 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


331 


Mrs. Rush-Marvelle and Mrs. Van Clupp in earnest con- 
versation. It was to Mrs. Marvelle that the Van Clupps 
owed their invitation for this one day down to Errington 
Manor, — for Thelma herself was not partial to them. But 
she did not like to refuse Mrs. Marvelle’s earnest entreaty 
that they should be asked, — and that good-natured, schem- 
ing lady having gained her point, straightway said to Mar- 
cia Van Clupp somewhat severely — 

‘‘ Now, Marcia, this is your last chance. If yoii don’t 
hook Masherville at the Carringten fete, you’ll lose him I 
You mark my words ! ” 

Marcia had dutifully promised to do her best, and she 
was not having what she herself called “ a good hard time 
of it.” Lord Algy was in one of his most provokingly va- 
cillating moods — moreover, he had a headache, and felt bil- 
ious. Therefore he would not dance — he would not play 
tennis — he did not understand archery — he was disinclined 
to sit in romantic shrubberies or summer-houses, as he had 
a nervous dread of spiders — so he rambled aimlessly about 
the grounds with his hands in his pockets, and perforce 
Marcia was compelled to ramble too. Once she tried what 
effect an opposite flirtation would have on his mind, so she 
coquetted desperately with a young country squire, whose 
breed of pigs was considered the finest in England — but 
Masherville did not seem to mind it in the least. Nay, he 
looked rather relieved than otherwise, and Marcia, seeing 
this, grew more resolute than ever. 

“I guess I’ll pay him out for this!” she thought as 
she watched him feebly drinking soda-water for his head- 
ache. “ He’s a man that wants ruling, and ruled he shall 
be ! ” . 

And Mrs. Rush-Marvelle and Mrs. Van Clupp observed 
her manoeuvres with maternal interest, while the cunning- 
faced, white-headed Van Clupp conversed condescendingly 
with Mr. Rush-Marvelle, as being a nonentity of a man 
whom he could safely patronize. 

As the glory of the sunset paled, and the delicate, warm 
hues of the summer twilight softened the landscape, the 
merriment of the brilliant jassembly seemed to increase. As 
soon as it was dark, the grounds were to be illuminated by 
electricity, and dancing was to be continued indoors — the 
fine old picture-gallery being the place chosen for the pur- 
pose. Nothing that could add to the utmost entertainment 
of the guests had been forgotten, and Thelma, the fair mis- 


332 


THELMA. 


tress of these pleasant revels, noting with quiet eyes the 
evident enjoyment of all present, felt very happy and tran- 
quil. She had exerted herself a good deal, and was now a 
little tired. Her eyes had a dreamy, far-off look, and she 
found her thoughts wandering, now and then, away to the 
Altenfjord — she almost fancied she could hear the sigh of 
the pines and the dash of the waves mingling in unison as they 
used to do when she sat at the old farm-house window and 
span, little dreaming then how her life would change — how 
all those familiar things would- be swept away as though 
they had never been. She roused herself from this momen- 
tary reverie, and glancing down at the recumbent gentle- 
man at her feet, touched his shoulder lightly with the edge 
of her fan. 

“ Why do you not dance, you very lazy Mr. Lorimer ? ” 
she asked, with a smile. 

He turned up his fair, half-boyish face to hers and 
laughed. 

“ Dance I 1 1 Good gracious I Such an exertion would 
kill me. Lady Errington — don’t you know that ? I 
am of a Sultan-like disposition — I shouldn’t mind having 
slaves to dance for me if the}^ did it well — but I should look 
on from the throne whereon I sat cross-legged, — and smoke 
my pipe in peace.” 

“ Always the same I ” she said lightly. “ Are you never 
serious ? ” 

His eyes darkened suddenly. “ Sometimes. A wfully so I 
And in that condition I become a burden to myself and my 
friends.” 

“ Never be serious I ” interposed Beau Lovelace, it really 
isn’t worth while! Cultivate the humor of a Socrates, and 
reduce everything by means of close argument to its small- 
est standpoint, and the world, life, and time are no more 
than a pinch of snuff for some great Titantic god to please 
his giant nose withal 1 ” 

“ Your fame isn’t worth much then. Beau, if we’re to go 
by that line of argument,” remarked Errington, with a 
laugh. 

“Fame! By Jove! You don't suppose I’m such an 
arrant donkey as to set any store by fame ! ” cried Love- 
lace, a broad smile lighting no his face and eyes. “ Why, 
because a few people read my books and are amused thereby, 
— and because the Press pats me graciously on the back, 
and says metaphorically, ‘ Well done, little ’uiU’ or words 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


333 


to that effect, am I to go crowing about the world as if I 
were the only literary chanticleer? My dear friend, hare 
you read ‘ Esdras ’ ? You will find there that a certain 
king of Persia wrote to one ‘ Rathumus, a story-writer.’ 
No doubt he was famous in his day, but, — to traA^esty 
Hamlet^ ‘ where be his stories now ? ’ Learn, from the 
deep oblivion into which poor Ratliumus’s literary efforts 
haA’-e fallen, the utter mockery and uselessness of so-called 
fame ! ” 

“ But there must be a certain pleasure in it while you’re 
alive to enjoy it,” said Lord Winsleigh. “ Surely you de- 
rive some little satisfaction from your celebrity, Mr. Love- 
lace?” 

Beau broke into a laugh, mellow, musical, and hearty. 

“ A satisfaction shared with murderers, thieves, divorced 
women, dynamiters, and other notorious people in general,” 
he said. “ They’re all talked about — so am I. They all 
get written about — so do I. My biography is always being 
carefully compiled by newspaper authorities, to the delight 
of the reading public. Only the other day I learned for 
the first time that my father was a greengrocer, who went 
in for selling coals by the half-hundred and thereby made 
his fortune — my mother was an unsuccessful oyster-woman 
who failed ignominiously at Margate — moreover, I’ve a 
great many brothers and sisters of tender age whom I ab- 
solutely refuse to assist. I’ve got a wife somewhere, whom 
my literary success causes me to despise — and I have de- 
serted children. I’m charmed with the accuracy of the 
newspapers — and I wouldn’t contradict them for the world, 
— I find my biographies so original 1 They are the result 
of that celebrity which Winsleigh thinks enjoyable.” 

“ But assertions of that kind are libels,” said Errington. 

You could prosecute.” 

‘f Too much trouble I ” declared Beau. ‘‘ Besides, five 
journals have disclosed the name of the town Avhere I was 
born, and as they all contradict each other, and none of 
them are right, any contradiction on my part would be 
superfluous ! ” 

They laughed, — and at that moment Lady Winsleigh 
joined them. 

“Are you not catching cold, Thelma?” she inquired 
sweetly. “ Sir Philip, you ought to make her put on some- 
thing warm, — I find the air growing chill^^” 

At that moment the ever-ready Sir Francis Lennox ap- 


334 


THELMA. 


preached with a light woolen wrap he had found in the 
ball. 

“ Permit me ! ” he said gently, at the same time adroitly 
throwing it over Thelma’s shoulders. 

She colored a little, — she did not care for his attention, 
but she could not very well ignore it without seeming to be 
discourteous. So. she murmured, “ Thank you I ” and, rising 
from her chair, addressed Lady Winsleigh. 

“ If you feel cold, Clara, you will like some tea,” she 
said. “ Shall we go indoors, where it is ready ? ” 

Lady Winsleigh assented with some eagerness, — and the 
two beautiful women — the one dark, the other fair — walked 
side by side across the lawn into the house, their arms 
round each other’s waists as they went. 

“ Two queens — and yet not rivals ? ” half queried Love- 
lace, as he watched them disappearing. 

“ Their thrones are secure ! ” returned Sir Philip gaily. 

The others were silent. Lord Winsleigh’s thoughts, 
tvhatever they were, deepened the lines of gravity on his 
face and George Lorimer, as he got up from his couch on 
the grass, caught a fleeting expression in the brown eyes of 
Sir Francis Lennox that struck him with a sense of un- 
pleasantness. But he quickly dismissed the impression 
from his mind, and went to have a quiet smoke in the 
shrubbery. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

“ La rose du jardin, comrae tu sais, dure peu, et la saison des roses 
cst bien vite 6coul6e ! ” — Saadi. 

Thelma took her friend Lady Winsleigh to her own 
boudoir, a room which had been the particular pride of Sir 
Philip’s mother. The walls were decorated with panels of 
blue silk in which were woven flowers of gold and silver 
thread, — and the furniture, bought from an old palace in 
Milan, was of elaborately carved wood inlaid with ivory 
and silver. Here a tete-d-tete tea was served for the two 
(adies, both of whom were somewhat fatigued by the pleas- 
ares of the day. Lady Winsleigh declared she must have 
some rest, or she would be quite unequal to the gaieties of 
the approaching evening, and Thelma herself was not sorry 
£0 escape for a little from lier duties as hostess, — so the two 
remained together for some time in earnest conversation. 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


335 


and Lady Winsleigh then and there confided to Thelma 
what she had 'heard reported concerning Sir Philip’s inti- 
mate acquaintance with the burlesque actress, Violet Vere. 
And they were both so long absent that, after a while, 
Errington began to miss his wife, and, growing impatient, 
went in search of her. He entered the boudoir, and, to his 
surprise, found Lady Winsleigh there quite alone. 

“ Where is Thelma ?” he demanded. 

“ She seems not very well — a slight headache or some- 
thing of that sort — and has gone to lie down,” replied Lady 
Winsleigh, with a faint trace of embarrassment in her 
manner. “ I think the heat has been too much for her.” 

“ I’ll go and see after her,” — and he turned promptly to 
leave the room. 

“ Sir Philip ! ” called Lady Winsleigh. He paused and 
looked back. 

“ Stay one moment,” continued her ladyship softly. “ I 
have been for a long time so very anxious to say something 
to you in private. Please let me speak now. You — you 
know ” — here she cast down her lustrous eyes — before you 
went to Norway I — I was very foolish ” 

“ Pray do not recall it,” he said with kindly gravity. 

‘‘ I have forgotten it.” 

“ That is so good of you I ” and a flush of color warmed 
her delicate cheeks. “ For if you have forgotten, 3' ou have 
also forgiven?” 

“ Entirely 1 ” answered Errington, — and touched by her 
plaintive, self-reproachful manner and trembling voice, he 
went up to her and took her hands in his own. “ Don’t 
think of the past, Clara ! Perhaps I also was to blame a 
little — I’m quite willing to think I was. Flirtation’s a 
dangerous amusement at best.” He paused as he saw two 
bright tears on her long, silky lashes, and in his heart felt - 
a sort of remorse that he had ever permitted himself to 
think badly of her. “ We are the best of friends now, 
Clara,” he continued cheerfully, “ and I hope we may al- 
ways remain so. You can’t imagine how glad I am that 
you love my Thelma ! ” 

“Who would not love her!” sighed Lady Winsleigh 
gently, as Sir Philip released her bauds from his warm 
clasp, — then raising her tearful e^'es to his she added wist- 
fully, “ You must take great care of her, Philip — she is so 
sensitive, — I always fancy an unkind word would kill her” 

“ She’ll never hear one from me I ” he returned, with so 


S36 


THEL3IA. 


tender and earnest a look on his face, that Lady Winsleigh's 
heart ached for jealousy. “ I must really go and see how 
she is. She’s been exerting herself too much to-day. Ex- 
cuse me ! ” and with a courteous smile and bow he left the 
room with a hurried and eager step. 

Alone, Lady Winsleigh smiled bitterl}^ “ Men are all 
alike!” she said half aloud. “Who would think he was 
such a hypocrite ? Fancy his dividing his aftection be- 
tween two such contrasts as Thelma and Yiolet Verel 
However, there’s no accounting for tastes. As for man's 
fidelity, I wouldn’t give a straw for it — and for his moral- 
ity 1 ” She finished the sentence with a scornful laugh, 

and left the boudoir to return to the rest of the company. 

Errington, meanwhile, knocked softly at the door of his 
wife’s bedroom — and receiving no answer, turned the handle 
noiselessly and went in. Thelma lay on the bed, dressed as 
she was, her cheek resting on her hand, and her face par- 
tially hidden. Her hus’oand approached on tiptoe, and 
lightly kissed her forehead. She did not stir, — she ap- 
peared to sleep profoundly. 

“ Poor girl I ” he thought, “ she’s tired out, and no won- 
der, with all the bustle and racket of these people I A good 
thing if she can rest a little before the evening closes in.” 

And he stole quietly out of the room, and meeting Britta 
on the stairs told her on no account to let her mistress be 
disturbed till it was time for the illumination of the 
grounds. Britta promised, — Britta’s eyes were red — one 
would almost have fancied she had been crying. But 
Thelma was not asleep — she had felt her husband’s kiss, — 
her heart had beat as quickly as the wdng of a caged wild 
bird at his warm touch, — and now he had gone she turned 
and pressed her lips passionately on the pillow where his 
hand had leaned. Then she rose languidly from the bed, 
and, walking slowly to the door, locked it against all 
comers. Presently she began to pace the room up and 
down, — up and down, — her face was very white and weary, 
and every now and then a shuddering sigh broke from her 
lips. 

“ Can I believe it ? Oh no !— I cannot — I will not ! ” 
she murmured. “ There must be some mistake — Clara has 
heard wrongly.” She sighed again. “Yet — if it is so, — 
he is not to blame — it is I— I who have failed to please 
him. Where — how have I failed ? ” 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


337 


A pained, puzzled look filled her grave blue eyes, and she 
stopped in her walk to and fro. 

“ It cannot be true ! ” she said half aloud, — “ it is alto- 
gether unlike him. Though Clara sa3-'s — and she has 
known him so long ! — Clara says he loved her once — long 
before he saw me — my poor Philip ! — he must have suffered 
by that love ! — perhaps that is why he thought life so wear- 
isome when he first came to the Altenfjord — ah I the Alten- 
flord ! ” 

A choking sob rose in her throat — but she repressed it. 
“ I must try not to weary him,” she continued softly — “ I 
must have done so in some way, or he would not be tired. 
But as for what I have heard, — it is not for me to ask him 
questions. I would not have him think that I mistrust 
him. No — there is some fault in me — something he does 

not like, or he would never go to ” She broke off and 

stretched out her hands with a sort of wild appeal. “ Oh, 
Philip ! my darling ! ” she exclaimed in a sobbing whisper. 
“ I always knew I was not worthy of you — but I thought, 
— I hoped my love would make amends for all my short- 
comings I ” 

Tears rushed into her eyes, and she turned to a little 
arched recess, shaded by velvet curtains — her oratory — 
where stood an exquisite white marble statuette of the Vir- 
gin and Child. There she knelt for some minutes, her face 
hidden in her hands, and when she rose she was quite calm, 
though very pale. She freshened her face with cold water, 
rearranged her disordered hair, — and then went downstairs, 
thereby running into the arms of her husband who was 
coming up again to look, as he said, at his “ Sleeping 
Beauty.” 

“ And here she is ! ” he exclaimed joyously. “ Have you 
rested enough, my pet ? ” 

“ Indeed, yes ! ” she answered gently. “ I am ashamed 
to be so lazy. Have you wanted me, Philip ? ” 

“ I always want you,” he declared. “ I am never happy 
without you.” 

She smiled and sighed. “ You say that to please me,” 
she said half wistfully. 

“ I say it because it is true! ” he asserted proudly, put- 
ting his arm round her waist and escorting her in this man- 
ner down the great staircase. “ And you know it, you sweet 
witch I You’re just in time to see the lighting up of the 
grounds. There’ll be a good view from the picture-gallery 
23 


S38 


THELMA. 


■ — ^lots of tbe people have gone in there — ^you’d better come 
too, for it’s chill}^ outside.” 

She followed him obediently, and lier reappearance among 
her guests was hailed with enthusiasm, — Lady Winsleigh 
being particular effusive, almost too much so. 

“ Your headache has quite gone, dearest, hasn’t it ? ” she 
inquired sweetly. 

Thelma eyed her gravely. I did not suffer from the 
headache, Clara,” she said. “ I was a little tired, but I am 
quite rested now.” 

Lady Winsleigh bit her lips rather vexedly, but said no 
more, and at that moment exclamations of delight broke 
from all assembled at the brilliant scene that suddenly 
flashed upon their eyes. Electricity, that radiant sprite 
whose magic wand has lately been bent to the service of 
man, had in less than a minute pla 3 ^ed such dazzling pranks 
in the gardens that they resembled the fabled treasure- 
houses discovered by Aladdin. Every tree glittered with 
sparkling clusters of red, blue, and green light — every 
flower-bed was bordered with lines and circles of harmless 
flame, and the fountains tossed up tall columns of amber, 
rose, and amethyst spray against the soft blue darkness of 
the sky, in which a lustrous golden moon had just risen. 
The brilliancy of the illuminations showed up several dark 
flgures strolling in couples about the grounds — romantic 
persons evidently, who were not to be persuaded to come 
indoors, even for the music of the band, which just then 
burst forth invitingljr through the open windows of the 
picture-gallery. 

Two of these pensive wanderers were Marcia Van Clupp 
and Lord Algernon Masherville, — and Lord Algy was in a 
curiously sentimental frame of mind, and weak withal, 
“ comme une petite queue d' agneau He had taken 

a good deal of soda and brandy' for his bilious headache, 
and, physically, he was much better, — but mentally be was 
not quite his ordinary self. By this it must not be under- 
stood that he was at all unsteadied by the potency of his 
medicinal tipple — he was simply in a bland humor — that 
peculiar sort of humor which finds strange and mystic 
beauty in everything, and contemplates the meanest trifles 
with emotions of large benevolence. He was conA’^ersa- 
tional too, and inclined to quote poetry — this sort of sus- 
ceptibleness often affects gentlemen after the^^ have had an 
excellent dinner flavored with the finest Burgundy. Lord 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


339 


Algy was as mild, as tame, and as flabb}' as a sleeping 
jelly-fish, — and in this inoffensive, almost tender mood of 
his, Marcia pounced upon him. She looked ravishingly 
prett}'^ in the moonlight, with a white wrap thrown care- 
lessly round her head and shoulders, and her bold, bird-like 
eyes sparkling with excitement (for who that knows the 
pleasure of sports, is not excited when the fox is nearly run 
to earth?), and she stood with him beside one of the 
smaller illuminated fountains, raising her small white hand 
every now and then to catch some of the rainbow drops, 
and then with a laugh she would shake them off her little 
pearly nails into the air again. Poor Masherville could not 
help gazing at her with a lack-lustre admiration in his pale 
e3^es, — and Marcia, calculating eveiy move in her own 
shrewd mind, saw it. She turned her head awaj’’ with a 
petulant yet coquettish movement. 

“ My patience ! ” she exclaimed ; “ yew Jcin stare I 
Yew’ll know me again when yew see me, — say ? ” 

“ I should know 3^011 an3wvhere,” declared Masherville, 
nervously fumbling with the string of his e3"e-glass. “ It’s 
impossible to forget your face, Miss Marcia ! ” 

She was silent, — and kept that face turned from him so 
long that the gentle little lord was surprised. He ap- 
proached her more closely and took her hand — the hand 
that had played with the drops in the fountain. It was 
such an astonishingly small hand. — so veiy fragile-looking 
and tiny, that he was almost for putting up his e3^e-glass to 
survey it, as if it were a separate object in a museum. 
But the faintest pressure of the delicate fingers he held 
startled him, and sent the most curious thrill through his 
body — and when he spoke he was in such a flutter that he 
scarcely knew what he was saying. 

“ Miss — Miss Marcia I ” he stammered, “ have — have 1 
said — anything to — to offend you ? ” 

Very slowly, and with seeming reluctance, she turned 
her head towards him, and — oh, thou mischievous Puck, 
that sometimes takest upon thee the semblance of Eros, 
what skill is thine ! . . . there were tears in her eyes — real 
tears — bright, large tears that welled up and fell through 
her long lashes in the most beautiful, touching, and becom- 
ing manner I “And,” thought Marcia to herself, “if I 
don’t fetch him now, I never will ! ” Lord Algy was quite 
frightened — his poor brain grew more and more bewildered. 
“ Why — Miss Marcia I I say I Look here I ” he mum 


340 


THELMA. 


bled in his extremity, squeezing her little hand tighter and 
tighter. “ What — what have I done I Good gracious I 
You — you really mustn’t cry, you know — I say — look 
here ! Marcia ! I wouldn’t vex 3'ou for the world ! ” 

“ Yew bet yew wouldn’t ! ” said Marcia, with slow and 
nasal plaintiveness. “ I like that 1 That’s the w'ay 3^ew 
English talk. But 3^ew kin hang round a girl a whole 
season and make all her folks think badly of her — and — and 
— break her heart — ^yes — that’s so ! ” Here she dried her 
eyes wdth a filmy lace handkerchief. “ But don’t yew 
mind me I I kin bear it. I kin worry through ! ” And 
she drew herself up with dignified resignation — while Lord 
Algy stared wildly at her, his feeble mind in a whirl. Pres- 
ently she smiled most seductively, and looked up wdth her 
dark, tear-wet eyes to the moon. 

“ I guess it’s a good night for lovers I ” she said, sinking 
her ordinary tone to an almost sweet cadence. “ But we’re 
not of that sort, are we ? ” 

The die was cast I She looked so charming — so irre- 
sistible, that Masherville lost all hold over his wdts. 
Scarcely knowing what he did, he put his arm round her 
waist. Oh, what a warm, yielding waist I He drew her 
close to his breast, at the risk of breaking his most valuable 
eyeglass, — and felt his poor weak soul in a quiver of ex- 
citement at this novel and delicious sensation. 

“We are — we are of that sort!” he declared coura- 
geously. “ Why should you doubt it, Marcia ? ” 

“ I believe yew if yew say so,” responded Marcia. “ But 
I guess 3^ew’re only fooling me I ” 

“Fooling you!” Lord Algy was so surprised that he 
released her quite suddenly from his embrace — so suddenly 
that she was a little frightened. Was she to lose him, after 
all? 

“ Marcia,” he continued mildly, yet with a certain manli- 
ness that did not ill become him. “ I — I hope I am too 
much of — of a gentleman to — to '’fool ’ any woman, least 
of all you, after I have, as you say, compromised you in 
society by my— my attentions. I— I have very little to offer 
you-— but such as it is, is yours. In — in short, Marcia, I — 
I will try to make you happy if you can — can care for me 
enough to — to— marry me ! ” 

Eureka ! The game was won ! A vision of Masherville 
Park, Yorkshire, that “ well-timbered and highly desirable 
residence,” as the auctioneers would describe it, fiitted 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


341 


before Marcia’s ej^es, — and, filled with triumph, she went 
straight into her lordlj’^ wooer’s arms, and kissed him with 
thorough transatlantic frankness. She was really grateful 
to him. Evei; since she had come to England, she had 
plotted and schemed to become “ my lady ” with all the 
vigor of a purely republican soul, — and now at last, after 
hard fighting, she had won the prize for which her soul had 
yearned. She would in future belong to the English 
aristocracy — that aristocracj^ which her relatives in New 
York pretended to despise, yet openly flattered, — and with 
her arms round the trapped Masberville’s neck, she foresaw 
the delight she would have in being toadied by them as far 
as toadyism could be made to go. 

She is by no means presented to the reader as a favorable 
t3q3e of her nation — for, df course, every one knows there 
are plenty" of sweet, unselfish, guileless American girls, who 
are absolutely incapable of such unblushing marriage- 
scheming as hers, — but what else could be expected from 
Marcia ? Her grandfather, the navvy, had but recently 
become endowed with Pilgrim-Father Ancestry, — and her 
maternal uncle was a boastful pork-dealer in Cincinnati. It 
was her bounden duty to ennoble the family somehow, — 
surely, if any one had a right to be ambitious, she was that 
one ! And wild proud dreams of her future passed through 
her brain, little Lord Algy quivered meekly under her kiss, 
and returned it with all the enthusiasm of which he was 
capable. One or two faint misgivings troubled him as to 
whether he had not been just a little too hasty in making a 
serious hona fide offer of marriage to the young lady by 
whose Pilgrim progenitors he was not deceived. He knew 
well enough what her antecedents were, and a faint shudder 
crossed him as he thought of the pork-dealing uncle, who 
would, by marriage, become his uncle also. He had long 
been proud of the fact that the house of Masherville had 
never, through the course of centuries, been associated, 
even in the remotest manner with trade — and now ! 

“ Yet, after all,” bemused, “ the Marquis of Londonderry 
openly advertises himself as a coal-merchant, and the 
brothers-in-law of the Princess Louise are in the wine trade 
and stock-broking business, — and all the old knightly 
blood of England is mingling itself by choice with that of 
the lowest commoners — what’s the use of my remaining 
aloof, and refusing to go wdtii the spirit of the age ? 
Besides, Marcia loves me, and it’s pleasant to be loved I ” 


THELMA. 


Poor Lord Algy. He certainly thought there Could bc 
no question about Marcia’s affection for him. He little 
dreamed that it was to his title and position she had be- 
come so deeply attached, — he could not guess that after he 
had married her there would be no more Lord Masherville 
worth mentioning— that that individual, once independent, 
would be entirely swallowed up and lost in the dashing per- 
sonality of Lady Masherville, who would rule her husband 
as with a rod of iron. 

He was happily ignorant of his future, and he walked in 
the gardens for some time with his arm round Marcia’s 
waist, in a very placid and romantic frame of mind. By- 
and-by he escorted her into the house, where the dancing 
was in full swing — and she, with a sweet smile, bidding him 
wait for her in the refreshment-room, sought for and found 
her mother, who as usual, was seated in a quiet corner with 
Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, talking scandal. 

“ Well? ” exclaimed these two ladies, simultaneously and 
breathlessly. 

Marcia’s eyes twinkled. “ Guess he came in as gently as 
a lamb I ” she said. 

They understood her. Mrs. Rush-Marvelle rose from her 
chair in her usual stately and expensive manner. 

“ I congratulate you, my dear I ” kissing Marcia affec- 
tionately on both cheeks. “ Bruce Errington would have 
been a better match, — but, under the circumstances, 
Masherville is really about the best thing you could do. 
You’ 11 find him quite easy to manage! ” This with an air 
as though she were recommending a quiet pony. 

‘‘ That’s so I ” said Marcia carelessly, “ I guess we’ll pull 
together somehow. Mar-ma,” to her mother — “ yew kin 
turn on the news to all the folks yew meet — the more talk 
the better 1 I’m not partial to secrets I ” And with a 
laugh, she turned away. 

Then Mrs. Van Clupp laid her plump, diamond-ringed 
hand on that of her dear friend, Mrs. Marvelle. 

“ You have managed the whole thing beautifully,” she 
said, with a grateful heave of her ample bosom. “ Such a 
clever creature as you are I ” She dropped her voice to a 
mysterious whisper. “ You shall have that cheque to-mor- 
row, my love ! ” 

Mrs. Rush-Marvelle pressed her fingers cordially. 

“ Don’t hurry yourself about it ! ” — she returned in the 
same confidential tone. ‘‘ I dare say you’ll want me to ar- 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


343 

range the wedding and the ‘ crush ’ afterwards. I can wait 
till then.” 

“No, no! that’s a separate affair,” declared Mrs. Van 
Clupp. “ I must insist on your taking the promised two 
hundred. You’ve been really so vei'y energetic ! ” 

“ Well, I have worked rather hard,” said Mrs. Marvelle, 
with modest self-consciousness. “ You see nowadays it’s 
so difficult to secure suitable husbands for the girls who 
ought to have them. Men arc such slippery creatures 1 ” 

She sighed — and Mrs. Van Clupp echoed the sigh, — 
and then these two ladies, — the nature of whose intimacy 
may now be understood by the discriminating reader, — 
went together to search out those of their friends and ac- 
quaintances who were among the guests that night, and 
to announce to them (in the strictest confidence, of course 1) 
the delightful news of “ dear Marcia’s engagement.” Thelma 
heard of it, and went at once to proffer her congratulations 
to Marcia in person. 

“ I hope you will be very, very happy ! ” she said simply, 
yet with such grave earnestness in her look and voice that 
the “ Yankee gel ” was touched to a certain softness and 
seriousness not at all usual with her, and became so wim 
ning and gentle to Lord Algy that he felt in the seventh 
heaven of delight with his new position as affianced lover to 
so charming a creature. 

Meanwhile George Lorimer and Pierre Dupree were 
chatting together in the library. It was very quiet there, 
— the goodly rows of books, the busts of poets and philoso- 
phers, — the large, placid features of the Pallas Athene 
crowning an antique pedestal, — the golden pipes of the 
organ gleaming through the shadows, — all these gave a 
solemn, almost sacred aspect to the room. The noise of the 
dancing and festivity in the distant picture-gallery did not 
oenetrate here, and Lorimer sate at the organ, drawing out 
a few plaintive strains from its keys as he talked. 

“ It’s your fancy, Pierre,’' he said slowly. “ Thelma 
may be a little tired to-day, perhaps — but I know she’s per- 
fectly happy.” 

“ I think not so,” returned Duprez. “ She has not the 
brightness — the angel look — les yeux cl’ enfant^ — that we 
beheld in her at that far Norwegian Fjord. Britta is 
anxious for her.” 

Lorimer looked up, and smiled a little. 


344 


THELMA. 


“ Britta ? It’s alwa3^s Britta with you, mon cher ! One 
would think ” he paused and laughed. 

“ Think what you please ! ” exclaimed Duprfez, with a 
defiant snap of his fingers. “ I would not give that little 
person for all the grandes dames here to-da}'^ ! She is 
charming — and she is true ! — Ma foi ! to be true to an^" one 
is a virtue in this age I I tell you, my good boj^, there is 
something sorrowful — heav^^ — on la belle Thelma’s mind — 
and Britta, who sees her alwa^^s, feels it — but she cannot 
speak. One thing I will tell you — it is a pity she is so 
fond of Miladi Winsleigh.” 

“ Why?” asked Lorimer, with some eagerness. 

“ Because ” he stopped abruptly as a white figure 

suddenly appeared at the doorway, and a musical voice ad- 
dressed them — 

“ Why, what are 3^011 both doing here, away from every- 
body ? ” and Thelma smiled as she approached. “ You are 
hermits, or you are lazy I People are going in to supper. 
Will you not come also?” 

“ Ma foi ! ” exclaimed Duprez ; “ I had forgotten ! I 
have promised 3"our most charming mother, cher Lorimer, 
to take her in to this same supper. I must fly upon the 
wings of chivalry I ” 

And with a laugh, he hurried off, leaving Thelma and 
Lorimer alone together. She sank rather wearjly into a 
chair near the organ, and looked at him. 

“ Play me something I ” she said softly. 

A strange thrill quivered through him as he met her eyes 
— the sweet, deep, earnest eyes of the woman he loved. 
For it was no use attempting to disguise it from himself 
— he loved her passionately, wildl3^, hopelessly ; as he had 
loved her from the first. 

Obedient to her wish, his fingers wandered over the 
organ-keys in a strain of solemn, weird, yet tender melan- 
choly — the grand, rich notes pealed forth sobbingl3^ — and 
she listened, her hands clasped idly in her lap. Presently 
he changed the theme to one of more heart-appealing pas- 
sion — and a strange wild minor air, like the rushing of the 
wind across the mountains, began to make itself heard 
through the subdued rippling murmur of his improvised 
accompaniment. To his surprise and fear, she started up, 
pressing her hands against her ears. 

“ Not that — not that song, my friend I ” she cried, almost 


THE LANE OF MOCKERY. 


345 


imploringly. “ Oh, it will break heart 1 Oh, the Al- 
ten^ord I ” And she gave way to a passion of weeping. 

“ Thelma 1 Thelma I ” and poor Lorimer, rising from the 
organ, stood gazing at her in piteous dismay, — every nerve 
in his body wrung to anguish by the sound of her sobbing. 
A mad longing seized him to catch her in his arms, — to 
gather her and her sorrows, whatever they were, to his 
heart ! — and he had much ado to restrain himself. 

‘‘ Thelma,” he presently said, in a gentle voice that 
trembled just a little, “Thelma, what is troubling you ? 
You call me 3^our brother — give me a brother’s right to 
your confidence.” He bent over her and took her hand. 
“ I — I can’t bear to see 3’ou cry like this 1 Tell me — what’s 
the matter ? Let me fetch Philip.” 

She looked up with wild wet eyes and quivering lips. 

“ Oh no — no ! ” she murmured, in a tone of entreaty and 
alarm. “ Do not, — Philip must not know — I do wish him 
always to see me bright and cheerful — and — it is nothing! 
It is that I heard something which grieved me ” 

“ What was it ? ” asked Lorimer, remembering Duprez’s 
recent remarks. 

“ Oh, I would not tell you I ” she said eagerly, drying her 
eyes and endeavoring to smile, “ because I am sure it was a 
mistake, and all wrong — and I was foolish to fancy that 
such a thing could be, even for a moment. But when on<d 
does not know the world, it seems cruel ” 

“ Thelma, what do you mean ? ” and George surveyed her 
in some perplexity. “ If any one’s been bothering or vex- 
ing you, just you tell Phil all about it. Don’t have an}^ 
secrets from him, — he’ll soon put everything straight, what- 
ever it is.” 

She shook her head slightly. “ Ah, you do not under- 
stand I ” she said pathetically, “ how should you ? Because 
3^ou have not given your life away to any one, and it is 
all different with you. But when you do love — if 3^011 are 
at all like me, — you will be so anxious to alwa3's seem 
worthy of love — and you will hide all 3'our griefs awa3^ 
from 3^our beloved, — so that your constant presence shall 
not seem tiresome. And I would not for all the world 
trouble Philip with my silly fancies — because then he 
might grow more weary still ” 

“ Weary I ” interrupted Lorimer, in an accent of emphatic 
surprise. “ Why, you don’t suppose Phil’s tired of you, 


346 


THELMA. 


Thelma ? That is nonsense indeed ! He worships you 1 
Who’s been putting such notions into your head ? ” 

She rose from her chair quite calm and very pale, and 
laid her two trembling hands in his. 

“ Ah, you also will mistake me,” she said, with touching 
sweetness, “ like so many others who think me strange in 
my speech and manner. I am sorry I am not like other 
women, — but I cannot help it. What I do wish you to under- 
stand is that I never suppose an3’^thing against my Philip 
— he is the noblest and best of men ! And j^ou must 
promise not to tell him that I was so foolish as to cry just 
now because you played that old song I sang to you both 
so often in Norway — it was because I felt a little sad — but 
it was only a fanc}^, — and I would not have him troubled 
with such things. Will you promise? ” 

“ But what has made you sad ? ” persisted Lorimer, still 
puzzled. 

“ Nothing — nothing indeed,” she answered, with almost 
feverish earnestness. “ You yourself are sometimes sad, 
and can you tell why ? ” 

Lorimer certainly could have told why, — but he remained 
silent, and gently kissed the little hands he held. 

“ Then I mustn’t tell Philip of your sadness ? ” he asked 
softly, at last. “ But will you tell him yourself, Thelma ? 
Depend upon it, it’s much better to have no secrets from 
him. The least grief of j^ours would affect him more than 
the downfall of a kingdom. You know how dearly he loves 
you I ” 

“ Yes — I know I ” she answered, and her eyes brightened 
slowly. “ And that is why I wish him alwaj^s to see me 
happy 1 ” She paused, and then added in a lower tone, “ I 
would rather die, my friend, than vex him for one hour I ” 

George still held her hands and looked wistfully in her 
face. He was about to speak again, when a cold, courteous 
voice interrupted them. 

“ Lady Errington, may I have the honor of taking you 
in to supper ? ” 

^It was Sir Francis Lennox. He had enterM quite noise- 
lessly — his footsteps making no sound on the thick velvet- 
pile carpet, and he stood quite close to Lorimer, who 
dropped Thelma’s hands hastily and darted a suspicious 
glance at the intruder. But Sir Francis was the very pic- 
ture of unconcerned and bland politeness, and offered 
Thelma his arm with the graceful ease of an accomplished 


TBE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


347 


courtier. She was, perforce, compelled to accept it — and 
she was slightly confused, though she could not have told 
why. 

“ Sir Philip has been looking everywhere for you,” con- 
tinued Sir Francis amicably. “And for you also,” he added, 
turning slightly to Lorimer. “ I trust I’ve not abruptly 
broken olf a pleasant tete-d-tete ? ” 

Lorimer colored hotly. “ Not at all,” he said rather 
brusquely. “ I’ve been strumming on the organ, and Lady 
Errington has been good enough to listen to me.” 

“ You do not said Thelma, with gentle reproach. 

“ You play very beautifully.” 

“ Ah ! a charming accomplishment 1 ” observed Sir Fran- 
cis, with his under-glance and covert smile, as they all three 
wended their way out of the library. “ I regret I have 
never had time to devote myself to acquiring some knowl- 
edge of the arts. In music I am a positive ignoramus I I 
can hold my own best in the field.” 

“ Yes, you’re a great adept at hunting, Lennox,” re- 
marked Lorimer suddenly, with something sarcastic in his 
tone. “ I suppose the quarry never escai)es you ? ” 

“ Seldom 1 ” returned Sir Francis coolly. “ Indeed, I 
think I may say, never I ” 

And with that, he passed into the supper-room, elbowing 
a way for Thelma, till he succeeded in placing her near the 
head of the table, where she was soon busily occupied in 
entertaining her guests and listening to their chatter ; and 
Lorimer, looking at her once or twice, saw, to his great 
relief, that all traces of her former agitation had disap- 
peared, leaving her face fair and radiant as a spring morning. 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

“ A generous fierceness dwells with innocence, 

And conscious virtue is allowed some pride.” 

Deyden. 

The melancholy days of autumn came on apace, and by- 
and-by the Manor was deserted. The Bruce-Errington es- 
tablishment removed again to town, where business, con- 
nected with his intending membership for Parliament, occu- 
pied Sir Philip from morning till night. The old insidious 
feeling of depression returned and hovered over Thelma’s 
mind like a black bird of ill omen, and though she did her 


348 


THELMA. 


best to shake it off she could not succeed. People began to 
notice her deepening seriousness and the wistful melancholy 
of her blue eyes, and made their remarks thereon when 
they saw her at Marcia Van Clupp’s wedding, an event 
which came off brilliantly at the commencement of Novem- 
ber, and which was almost entirely presided over by Mrs. 
Rush-Marvelle. That far-seeing matron had indeed urged 
on the wedding by every delicate expedient possible. 

“ Long engagements are a great mistake,” she told 
Marcia, — then, in a warning undertone she added, “ Men 
are capricious nowadays, — they’re all so much in demand, 
— better take Masherville while he’s in the humor.” 

Marcia accepted this hint and took him, — and Mrs. Rush- 
Marvelle heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the twain 
safely married, and off to the Continent on their honeymoon- 
trip, — Marcia all sparkling and triumphant, — Lord Algy 
tremulous and feebly ecstatic. 

“ Thank Heaven that^s over I ” she said to her polite and 
servile husband. “ I never had such a troublesome busi- 
ness in my life I That girl’s been nearly two seasons on 
m}^ hands, and I think five hundred guineas not a bit too 
much for all I’ve done.” 

“Not a bit — not a bit!” agreed Mr. Mar velle warmly. 
“ Have they — have they ” here he put on a most benev- 
olent side-look — quite settled wdth you, my dear ? ” 

“ Every penny,” replied Mrs. Marvelle calmly. “ Old 
Yan Clupp paid me the last hundred this morning. And 
poor Mrs. Yan Clupp is so very grateful 1 ” She sighed 
placidly, and appeared to meditate. Then she smiled 
sweetly and, approaching Mr. Marvelle, patted his shoulder 
caressingly. “ I think we’ll do the Italian lakes, dear — 
what do you say ? ” 

“ Charming — charming ! ” declared, not her lord and 
master, but her slave and vassal. “ Nothing could be more 
delightful I ” 

And to the Italian lakes accordingly they went. A 
great many people were out of town, — all who had leisure 
and money enough to liberate themselves from the ap- 
proaching evils of an English winter, had departed or were 
departing, — Beau Lovelace had gone to Como, — George 
Lorimer had returned with Huprfez to Paris, and Thelma 
had very few visitors except Lady Winsleigh, who was 
more often with her now than ever. In fact, her ladyship 
was more like one of the Errmgton household than any- 


TEE LAND OF MOCKERY 


349 


thing else, — she came so frequently and stayed so long. 
She seemed sincerely attached to Thelma, — and Thelma 
herself, too single-hearted and simple to imagine that such 
affection could be feigned, gave her in return, what Lady 
Winsleigh had never succeeded in winning from any 
woman, — a pure, trusting, and utterly unsuspecting love^ 
such as she would have lavished on a twin-born sister. 
But there was one person who was not deceived by Lady 
Winsleigh’s charm of manner, and grace of speech'. This 
was Britta. Her keen eyes flashed a sort of unuttered de- 
fiance into her ladyship’s beautiful, dark languishing ones 
— she distrusted her, and viewed the intimacy between her 
and the “ Broken ” with entire disfavor. Once she ven- 
tured to express something of her feeling on the matter to 
Thelma — but Thelma had looked so gently wondering and 
reproachful that Britta had not courage to go on. 

“ I am so sorry, Britta,” said her mistress, “ that you do 
not like Lady Winsleigh — because I am very fond of her. 
You must try to like her for my sake.” 

But Britta pursed her lips and shook her head obsti- 
nately. However, she said no more at the time, and 
decided within herself to wait and watch the course of 
events. And in the meantime she became very intimate 
with Lady Winsleigh’s maid, Louise Renaud, and Briggs, 
and learned from these two domestic authorities many 
things which greatly tormented and puzzled her little 
brain, — things over which she pondered deeply without ar- 
riving at any satisfactory conclusion. 

On her return to town, Thelma had been inexpressibly 
shocked at the changed appearance of her husband’s secre- 
tary, Edward Neville. At first she scarcely knew him, he 
had altered so greatly. Always inclined to stoop, his 
shoulders were now bent as by the added weight of twenty 
years — his hair, once only grizzled, was now quite grey — 
his face was deeply sunken and pale, and his eyes hy con- 
trast looked large and wild, as though some haunting 
thought were driving him to madness. He shrank so nerv- 
ously from her gaze, that she began to fancy he must have 
taken some dislike to her, — and though she delicately re- 
frained from pressing questions upon him personally, she 
si)oke to her husband about him, with real solicitude. “ Is 
Mr. Neville working too hard ? ” she asked one day. “ He 
looks very ill,” 


350 


THELMA. 


Her remark seemed to embarrass Philip, — he colored 
and seemed confused. 

“ Does he? Oh, I suppose he sleeps badly. Yes, I re- 
member, he told me so. You see, the loss of his wife has 
always preyed on his mind — he never loses hope of — of — 
that is — he is always trying to — you know I — to get her 
back again.” 

“But do you think he will ever find her ? ” asked Thelma. 
“ I thought you said it W'as a hopeless case ? ” 

“ Well — I think so, certainly — but, 3^011 see, it’s no good 
dashing his hopes — one never knows — she might turn up 
any day — it’s a sort of chance I ” 

“ I wish I could help him to search for her,” she said 
compassionately. “His e3^es do look^so full of sorrow,” 
she paused and added musingly, “ almost like Sigurd’s eyes 
sometimes.” 

“ Oh, he’s not losing his wits,” said Philip hastily, “ he’s 
quite patient, and — and all that sort of thing. Don’t 
bother about him, Thelma, he’s all right 1 ” 

And he fumbled hastily with some papers, and began to 
talk of something else. His embarrassed manner caused 
her to wonder a little at the time as to the reason of it, — 
but she had many other things to think about, and she 
soon forgot a conversation that might have proved a small 
guiding-link in the chain of events that were soon about to 
follow quickly one upon another, shaking her life to its 
very foundation. Lady Winsleigh found it almost impos- 
sible to get her on the subject of the burlesque actress, 
Violet Vere, and Sir Philip’s supposed admiration for that 
notorious stage-siren. 

“ 1 do not believe it,” she said firmly, “ and you — 3^011 
must not believe it either, Clara. For wherever you heard 
it, it is wrong. We should dishonor Philip by such a 
thought — you are his friend, and I am his wife — we are not 
the ones to believe anything against him, even if it could be 
proved — and there are no proofs.” 

“ My dear,” responded her ladyship easily. “ You can 
get proofs for yourself if you like. For instance, ask Sir 
Philip how often he has seen Miss Vere lately, — and hear 
what he sa3^s.” 

Thelma colored deeply. “ I would not question my hus- 
band on such a subject,” she said proudly. 

“ Oh well ! if you are so fastidious I ” And Lady Wins- 
leigh shrugged her shoulders. 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


351 


‘‘ I am not fastidious,” returned Thelma, “ only I do wish 
to he worthy of his love, — and I should not be so if I 
doubted him. No, Clara, I will trust him to the end.” 

Clara Winsleigh drew nearer to her, and took her hand. 

“ Even if he were unfaithful to you ? ” she asked in a low, 
impressive tone. 

“ Unfaithful ! ” Thelma uttered the word with a little cry. 
“ Clara, dear Clara, you must not say such a word ! Un- 
faithful 1 That means that my husband would love some 
one more than me ! — ah I that is impossible ! ” 

“ Suppose it were possible ? ” persisted Lady Winsleigh, 
with a cruel light in her dark eyes. “ Such things have 
been ! ” 

Thelma stood motionless, a deeply mournful expression on 
her fair, pale face. She seemed to think for a moment, then 
she spoke. 

“ I would never believe it I ” she said solemnly. “ Never, 
unless I heard it from his own lips, or saw it in his own 
writing, that he was weary of me, and wanted me no more.” 

“ And then ? ” 

“ Then ” — she drew a quick breath — “ I should know 
what to do. But, Clara, you must understand me well, 
even if this were so, I should never blame him — no — not 
once I ” 

“Not blame him ? ” cried Lady Winsleigh impatiently. 
“ Not blame him for infidelity ? ” 

A deep blush swept over her face at the hated word “ in- 
fidelity,” but she answered steadily — 

“ No. Because, you see, it would be my fault, not his. 
When you hold a flower in your hand for a long time, till 
all its fragrance has gone, and you drop it because it no 
longer smells sweetly — ^j’'ou are not to blame — it is natural 
you should wish to have something fresh and fragrant, — it 
is the flower’s fault because it could not keep its scent long 
enough to please you. Now, if Philip were to love me no 
longer, I should be like that flower, and how would he be to 
blame ? He would be good as ever, but I — I should have 
ceased to seem pleasant to hhn — that is all I ” 

She put this strange view of the case quite calmly, as if 
it were the only solution to the question. Lady Winsleigh 
heard her, half in contemptuous amusement, half in dismay. 
“ What can I do with such a woman as this,” she thought. 
“ And fancy Lennie imagining for a moment that he could 
have any power over her 1 ” Aloud, she said — . 


352 


THELMA. 


“ Thelma, you’re the oddest creature going — a regular 
heathen child from Norway I You’ve set up your husband 
as an idol, and you’re always on your knees before him. It’s 
awfully sweet of you, but it’s quite absurd, all the same. 
Angelic wives always get the worst of it, and so you’ll see ! 
Haven’t you heard that ? ” 

“ Yes, I have heard it,’ she answered, smiling a little. 

But only since I came to Ijondon. In Norway, it is 
taught to women that to be patient and obedient is best for 
every one. It is not so here. But I am not an angelic 
wdfe, Clara, and so the ‘ worst of it ’ will not apply to me. 
Indeed, I do not know of any ‘ worst ’ that I would not 
bear for Philip’s sake.” 

Lady Winsleigh studied the lovely face, eloquent with 
love and trutlqYor some moments in silence ; — a kind of com- 
punction pricked her conscience. Why destroy all that 
beautiful faith ? Why w’^onnd that grandly trusting nature ? 
The feeling was but momentary. 

“ Philip does run after the Yere,” she said to herself — 
“ it’s true, there’s no mistake about it, and she ought to 
know of it. But she won’t believe without proofs — w^hat 
proofs can I get, I wonder ? ” And her scheming brain set 
to work to solve this problem. 

In justice to her, it must be admitted, she had a good 
deal of seeming truth on her side. Sir Philip’s name had 
somehow got connected with that of the leading actress at 
the Brilliant, and more people than Lady Winsleigh began 
to make jocose w'hispering comments on his stage “ a?nowr,” 
— comments behind his back, which he was totally unaware 
of. Nobody knew quite how the rumor had first been 
started. Sir Francis Lennox seemed to know a good deal 
about it, and he was an “ intimate ” of the “ Yere ” magic 
circle of attraction. And though the}- talked, no one ven- 
tured to say anything to Sir Philip himself; — the only two 
among his friends who would have spoken out honestly 
were Beau Lovelace and Lorimer, and these were absent. 

One evening, contrary to his usual custom. Sir Philip 
went out after the late dinner. Before leaving, he kissed 
his wife tenderly, and told her on no account to sit up for 
him — he and Neville were going to attend to a little matter 
of business which might detain them longer than they 
could calculate. After they had gone, Thelma resigned 
herself to a lonely evening, and, stirring the fire in the 
drawing-room to a cheerful blaze, she sat down beside it. 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


353 


f^irst, she amused herself by reading over some letters re- 
cently received from her father, — and then, yielding to a 
sudden fancy, she drew her spinning-wheel from the corner 
where it always stood, and set it in motion. She had little 
time for spinning now, but she never quite gave it up, and 
as the low, familiar whirring sound hummed pleasantly on 
her ears, she smiled, thinking how quaint and almost in- 
congruous her simple implement of industry looked among 
all the luxurious furniture, and costly nick-nacks by which 
she was surrounded. 

“ I ought to have one of my old gowns on,” she half mur- 
mured, glancing down at the pale-blue silk robe she wore, 
“ I am too fine to spin I ” 

And she almost laughed as the wheel flew round swiftly 
under her graceful manipulations. Listening to its whirr, 
whirr, whirr, she scarcely heard a sudden knock at the 
street-door, and was quite startled when the servant, Mor- 
ris, announced — 

“ Sir Francis Lennox ! ” 

Surprised, she rose from her seat at the spinning-wheel 
with a slight air of hauteur. Sir Francis, who had never 
in his life seen a lady of title and fashion in London en- 
gaged in the primitive occupation of spinning, was entirely 
delighted with the picture before him, — the tall, lovely 
woman with her gold hair and shimmering blue draperies, 
standing with such stateliness beside the simple wooden 
wheel, the antique emblem of household industry. In- 
stinctively he thought of Marguerite ; — but Marguerite as 
a crowned queen, superior to all temptations of either man 
or fiend. 

“ Sir Philip is out,” she said, as she suffered him to take 
her hand. 

“ So I was aware ! ” returned Lennox easily. “ I saw him 
a little while ago at the door of the Brilliant Theatre.” 

She turned very pale, — then controlling the rapid beating 
of her heart by a strong effort, she forced a careless smile, 
and said bravely — 

“ Did you ? I am very glad — for he will have some 
amusement there, perhaps, and that will do him good. He 
has been working so hard ! ” 

She paused. He said nothing, and she went on more 
cheerfully still — 

“ Is it not a very dismal, wet evening I Yes I — and yon 
must be cold. Will you have some tea ? ” 

23 


354 


THELMA, 


“ Tha-anks I ” drawled Sir Francis, staring at her admir. 
ingly. If it’s not too much trouble ” 

“ Oh no ! ” said Thelma. “ Why should it be ? ” And she 
rang the bell and gave the order. Sir Francis sank lazily 
back in an easy chair, and stroked his moustache slowly. 
He knew that his random hit about the theatre had struck 
home, — but she allowed the arrow to pierce and possibly 
wound her heart without showing any outward sign of dis- 
composure. “ A plucky woman I ” he considered., and won- 
dered how he should make his next move. She, meanwhile, 
smiled at him frankly, and gave a light twirl to her spin- 
ning-wheel. 

“ You see ! ” she said, “ I was amusing myself this 
evening by imagining that I w'as once more at home in 
Norway.” 

“ Pray don’t let me interrupt the amusement,” he re- 
sponded, with a sleepy look of satisfaction shooting from 
beneath his ej^elids. “ Go on spinning. Lady Errington I 
. . . I’ve never seen any one spin before.” 

At that moment Morris appeared with the tea, and 
handed it to Sir Francis, — Thelma took none, and as the 
servant retired, she quietly resumed her occupation. There 
was a short silence, only broken by the hum of the wheel. 
Sir Francis sipped his tea with a meditative air, and studied 
the' fair woman before him as critically as he would have 
studied a picture. 

“ I hope I’m not in your way ? ” he asked suddenly. She 
looked up surprised. 

“ Oh no — only I am sorry Philip is not here to talk to 
you. It would be so much pleasanter.” 

‘‘ Would it?” he murmured rather rather dubiously and 
smiling. “ Well — I shall be quite contented if you wdll talk 
to me. Lady Errington 1 ” 

“Ah, but I am not at all clever in conversation,” re- 
sponded Thelma quite seriously. “ I am sure you, as well 
as many others, must have noticed that. I never do seem 
to say exactly the right thing to please everybody. Is it 
not very unfortunate ? ” 

He laughed a little. “ I have yet to learn in what way 
you do not please everybody,” he said, dropping his voice to 
a low, caressing cadence. “ Who, that sees you, does not 
admire — and — and love you ? ” 

She met his languorous gaze without embarrassment,— 




TEE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


355 


while the childlike openness of her regard confused and 
slightly shamed him. 

“ Admire me ? Oh yes ! ” she said somewhat plaintively. 
“ It is that of which I am so weary I Because God has 
made one pleasant in form and face, — to be stared at and 
whispered about, and have all one’s dresses copied ! — all 
that is so small and common and mean, and does vex me so 
much ! ” 

“ It is the penalty- you pay for being beautiful,” said Sir 
Francis slowly, wondering within himself at the extrao- 
dinary incongruity of a feminine creature who was actually 
tired of admiration. 

She made no reply — the wheel went round faster than be- 
fore. Presently Lennox set aside his emptied cup, and 
drawing his chair a little closer to hers, asked — 

“ When does Errington return ? ” 

“ I cannot tell you,” she answered. “ He said that he 
might be late. Mr. Neville is with him.” 

There was another silence. “ Lady Errington,” said Sir 
Francis abruptly — “ pray excuse me — I speak as a friend, 
and in your interests, — how long is this to last ?” 

The wheel stopped. She raised her eyes, — they were 
grave and steady. 

“ I do not understand you,” she returned quietly. “ What 
is it that you mean ? ” 

He hesitated — then went on, with lowered e^^elids and a 
half-smile. 

“ I mean — what all our set’s talking about — Errington’s 
queer fancy for that actress at the Brilliant.” 

Thelma still gazed at him lixedl}^ “ It is a mistake,” 
she said resolutely, “ altogether a mistake. And as you are 
his friend. Sir Francis, you will please contradict tliis re- 
port — which is wrong, and may do Philip harm. It has no 
truth in it at all ” 

‘‘ No truth ! ” exclaimed Lennox. “ It’s true as Gospel I 
Lady Errington, I’m sorry for it — but your husband is de- 
ceiving you most shamefully I ” 

“ How dare you say such a thing ! ” she cried, springing 
upright and facing him, — then she stopped and grew very 
pale — but she kept her eyes upon him. How bright they 
were I What a chilling pride glittered in their sea-blue 
depths ! 

“ You are in error,” she said coldl}'. ‘‘If it is wrong to 
visit this theatre you speak of, why are yoa so often seen 


856 


THELMA. 


there — and why is not some harm said of you ? It is not 
your place to speak against my husband. It is shameful and 
treacherous ! You do forget yourself most wickedly ! ” 
And she moved to leave the room. But Sir Francis in- 
terposed. 

“ Lady Errington,” he said very gently, “ don’t be hard 
upon me — pray forgive me I Of course I’ve no business 
to speak — but how can 1 help it ? When I hear every one 
at the clubs discussing you, and pitying 3 ^ 011 , it’s impossi- 
ble to listen quite unmoved I I’m the least among your 
friends, I know, — but I can’t bear this sort of thing to go 
on, — the whole affair will be dished up in the society papers 
next I ” 

And he paced the room half impatientl}^, — a very well- 
feigned expression of friendly concern and sympathy on 
his features. Thelma stood motionless, a little bewildered 
— her head throbbed achingly, and there was a sick sensa- 
tion of numbness creeping about her. 

“ I tell you it is all wrong I ” she repeated with an effort. 
“ I do not understand wh}^ these people at the clubs should 
talk of me, or pity me. I do not need any pity I My hus- 
band is all goodness and truth,” — she stopped and gathered 
courage as she went on. “ Yes ! he is better, braver, nobler 
than all other men in the world, it seems to me I He gives 
me all the joy of my life — each day and night I thank God 
for the blessing of his love I” 

She paused again. Sir Francis turned and looked at her 
steadily. A sudden thought seemed to strike her, for she 
advanced eagerly, a sweet color flushing the pallor of her 
skin. 

“ You can do so much for me if you will I ” she said, lay- 
ing her hand on his arm. “ You can tell all these people 
who talk so foolishly that they are wrong, — tell them how 
happy I am ! And that my Philip has never deceived me 
in any matter, great or small ! ” 

“ Never ? ” he asked with a slight sneer. “ You are sure ? ” 
“ Sure I ” she answered bravely. “ He would keep noth- 
ing from me that it was necessary or good for me to know. 
And I — oh ! I might pass all my life in striving to please 
him, and yet I should never, never be worthy of all his ten- 
derness and goodness ! And that he goes many times to a 
theatre without me — what is it ? A mere nothing — a trifle 
to laugh at 1 It is not needful to tell me of such a small 
circumstance I ” 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


357 


As she spoke she smiled — her form seemed to dilate with 
a sort of inner confidence and rapture. 

Sir Francis stared at her half shamed, — half savage. 
The beautiful, appealing face, bright with sim[)le trust, 
roused him to no sort of manly respect or forbearance, — the 
very touch of the blossom-white hand she had laid so inno- 
cently on his arm, stung his passion as with a lash — as he 
had said, he was fond of hunting — he had chased the un- 
conscious deer all through the summer, and now that it had 
turned to bay with such pitiful mildness and sweet plead- 
ing, why not draw the knife across its slim throat without 
mercy ? 

“ Really, Lady Errington I ” he said at last sarcastically, 
“ your wifely enthusiasm and confidence are indeed charm- 
ing ! But, unfortunately, the proofs are all against 3^11. 
Truth is truth, however much ymu may wish to blind 3^111- 
e3^es to its manifestations. I sincerely wish Sir Philip were 
present to hear your eloquent i)raises of him, instead of be- 
ing where he most undoubtedly is, — in the arms of Violet 
Yere ! ” 

As he said these words she started awa3^ from him and 
put her hands to her ears as though to shut out some dis- 
cordant sound — her e3ms glowed feverishly. A cold shiver 
shook her from head to foot. 

“ That is false — false I ” she muttered in a low, choked 
voice. “ How can 3^11 — how dare 3^11 ? ” 

She ceased, and with a swaying, bewildered movement, as 
though she were blind, she fell senseless at his feet. 

In one second he w\as kneeling beside her. He raised her 
head on his arm, — he gazed eagerly on her fair, still features. 
A dark contraction of his brows showed that his thoughts 
were not altogether righteous ones. Suddenly he laid her 
down again gently', and, springing to the door, locked it. 
Returning, he once more lifted her in a half-reclining posi- 
tion, and encircling her with his arms, drew her close to his 
breast and kissed her. He was in no huriy for her to re- 
cover — she looked very beautiful — she w^as helpless — she 
was in his power. The silvery ting-ling of the clock on the 
mantel-piece striking eleven startled him a little — he lis- 
^ tened painfully — he tliought he heard some one trying the 
handle of the door he had locked. Again — again he kissed 
those pale, unconscious lips ! Presently, a slight shiver 
ran through her frame — she sighed, and a little moan 
escaped her. Gradually', as w^armth and sensation returned 


358 


THELMA. 


to her, she felt the pressure of his embrace, and mur- 
mured — 

“ Philip 1 Darling, — you have come back earlier, — I 
thought ” 

Here she opened her e3^es and met those of Sir Francis, 
who was eagerly bending over her. She uttered an excla- 
mation of alarm, and strove to rise. He held her still more 
closel}^ 

“ Thelma — dear, dearest Thelma I Let me comfort you, 
— let me tell 3^ou how much I love you 1 ” 

And before she could divine his intent, he pressed his lips 
passionately on her pale cheek. With a cry she tore her- 
self violently from his arms and sprang to her feet, trembling 
in eveiy limb. 

“ What — what is this ? ” she exclaimed wrathfully. “ Are 
you mad ? ” 

And still weak and confused from her recent attack of 
faintness, she pushed back her hair from her brows and re- 
garded him with-a sort of puzzled horror. 

He flushed deeply, and set his lips hard. 

“ I dare say I am,” he answered, with a bitter laugh; 
“ in fact, I know I am I You see, I’ve betra^^ed my miser- 
able secret. Will you forgive me. Lady Errington — 
Thelma ? ” He drew nearer to her, and his e^^es darkened 
with restrained passion. “ Matchless beauty ! — adorable 
woman, as you are I — will you not pardon my crime, if 
crime it be — the crime of loving you ? For I do love j'ou I 
— Heaven only knows how utterly and desperately I ” 

She stood mute, white, almost rigid, with that strange 
look of horror frozen, as it were, upon her features. Em- 
boldened by her silence, he approached and caught her 
hand, — she wrenched it from his grasp and motioned him 
from her with a gesture of such royal contempt that he 
quailed before her. All suddenly the flood-gates of her 
speech were loosened, — the rising tide of burning indigna- 
tion that in its very force had held her dumb and motion- 
less, now broke forth unrestrainedly. 

“ O God I ” she cried impetuously, a magnificent glory of 
disdain flashing in her jewel-like eyes, “ what thing is this 
that calls itself a man ? — this thief of honor, — this pre- 
tended friend ? What have I done, sir, that 3"ou should 
put such deep disgrace as your so-called Jove upon me ? — 
what have I seemed, that 3"Ou thus dare to outrage me by 
the pollution of your touch? I, — the wife of the noblest 


IHE LANt) OP 3I0CKERY. 


359 


gentleman in the Ian:"* ! All I ” and she drew a long breath 
— “ and it is you who speak against my husband — you ! 
She smiled scornfully, — then with more calmness continued 
— “ You will leave my house, sir, at once I . . . and 

never presume to enter it again I ” 

And she stepped towards the bell. He looked at her with 
an evil leer. 

“ Stop a moment I ” he said coolly. ‘‘Just one moment 
before 3 'ou ring. Pray consider ! The servant cannot pos- 
sibly enter, as the door is locked.” 

“ You dared to lock the door I ” she exclaimed, a sudden 
fear chilling her heart as she remembered similar ma- 
noeuvres on the part of the Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy — 
then another thought crossed her mind, and she began to 
retreat towards a large painted panel of “ Venus ” disport- 
ing among cupids and dolphins in the sea. Sir Francis 
sprang to her side, and caught her arm in an iron grip — his 
face was aflame with baffled spite and vindictiveness. 

“Yes, I dared 1^’’ he muttered with triumphant malice. 
“ And I dared do more than that I You lay unconscious in 
my arms, — you beautiful, bewitching Thelma, and I kissed 
you — ay I fifty times I You can never undo those kisses 1 
You can never forget that my lips, as well as your hus- 
band’s, have rested on yours — I have had that much joy 
that shall never be taken away from me I And if I choose, 
even now,” — and he gripped her more closely — “ yes, even 
now I will kiss you, in spite of 3^011 I — who is to prevent 
me ? I will force you to love me, Thelma ” 

Driven to bay, she struck him with all her force in the 
face, across the eyes. 

“ Traitor ! — liar I — coward 1 ” she gasped breathlessly. 
“ Let me go I ” 

Smarting with the pain of the blow, he unconsciously 
loosened his grasp — she rushed to the “ Venus ” panel, and 
to his utter discomfiture and amazement he saw it open and 
close behind her. She disappeared suddenly and noise- 
lessly as if b 3 ^ magic. With a fierce exclamation, he threw 
his whole weight against that secret sliding door — it re- 
sisted all his efforts. He searched for the spring by which 
it must have opened, — the whole panel was perfectly smooth 
and apparently solid, and the painted “ Venus ” reclining 
on her dolphin’s back seemed as though she smiled mock- 
ingly at his rage and disappointment. 

While he was examining it, he heard the sudden, sharp, 


360 


THELMA. 


and continuous ringing of an electric bell somewhere in the 
house, and with a guilty flush on his face he sprang to the 
drawing-room door and unlocked it. He was just in time, 
for scarcely had he turned the key, when Morris made his 
appearance. That venerable servitor looked round the 
room in evident surprise. 

“ Did her ladyship ring ? ” he inquired, his eyes roving 
everywhere in search of his mistress. Sir Francis collected 
his wits, and forced himself to seem composed. 

“ No,” he said coolly. “ 1 rang.” He adopted this false- 
hood as a means of exit. “ Call a hansom, will you ? ” 

And he sauntered easily into the hall, and got on his hat 
and great-coat. Morris was rather bewildered, — but, obedi- 
ent to the command, blew the summoning cab-whistle, which 
was promptly answered. Sir Francis tossed him half a 
crown, and entered the vehicle', which clattered away with 
him in the direction of Cromwell Road. Stopping at a par- 
ticular house in a side street leading from thence, he bade 
the cabman wait, — and, ascending the steps, busied himself 
for some moments in scribbling something rapidly in pencil 
on a leaf of his note-book by the light of the hanging-lamp 
in the doorway. He then gave a loud knock, and inquired 
of the servant wdio answered it — 

“ Is Mr. Snawley-Grubbs in ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” — the reply came rather hesitatingly — “ but 
he’s having a party to-night.” 

And, in fact, the scraping of violins and the shuffle of 
dancing feet were distinctly audible overhead. 

“ Oh, well, just mention my name — Sir Francis Lennox. 
Say I will not detain him more than five minutes.” 

He entered, and was ushered into a small ante-room 
while the maid went to deliver her message. He caught 
sight of his own reflection in a round mirror over the man- 
tel-piece, and his face darkened as he saw a dull red ridge 
across his forehead — the mark of Thelma’s well-directed 
blow, — the sign-manual of her scorn. A few minutes 
passed, and then there came in to him a large man in an ex- 
pensive dress-snit, — a man with a puffy, red, Silenus-like 
countenance — no other than Mr. Snawley-Grubbs, who 
hailed him with effusive cordiality. 

“ My dear, Sir Francis! ” he said in a rich, thick, uncom- 
fortable voice. “ This is an unexpected pleasure I Won’t 
you come upstairs ? My girls are having a little informal 
dance — just among themselves and their own young friends 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


361 


— quite simple, — in fact an unpretentious little affair ! ’’ 
And he rubbed his fat hands, on which twinkled two or 
three large diamond rings. “ But we shall be charmed if 
you will join us I ” 

“ Thanks, not this evening,” returned Sir Francis. “ It’s 
rather too late. I should not have intruded upon you at 
this hour — but I thought you might possibly like this para- 
graph for the Snake.'''' 

And he held out with a careless air the paper on w^iich 
he had scribbled but a few minutes previously. Mr. Snaw- 
ley-Grubbs smiled, — and fixed a pair of elegant gold-rimmed 
eye-glasses on his inflamed crimson nose. 

“ I must tell you, though,” he observed, before reading, 
“ that it is too late for this week, at any rate. We’ve gone 
to press already.” 

“ Never mind ! ” returned Sir Francis indifferently. 

Next week will do as well.” 

And he furtively watched Mr. Snawley-Grubbs while he 
perused the pencilled scrawl. That gentleman, however, as 
Editor and Proprietor of the Snake — a new, but highly suc- 
cessful weekly “ society ” journal, was far too dignified and 
self-important to allow his countenance to betray his feel- 
ings. He merely remarked, as he folded up the little slip 
very carefully. 

“Very smart I very smart, indeed! Authentic, of 
course ? ” 

Sir Francis drew himself up haughtily. “ You doubt my 
word ? ” 

“ Oh dear, no ! ” declared Mr. Snawley-Grubbs hastily, 
venturing to lay a soothing hand on Sir Francis’s shoulder. 

“ Your position, and all that sort of thing- Naturally 

you must be able to secure correct information. You can’t 
help it ! I assure you the Snake is infinitely obliged to 
you for a great many well-written and socially exciting 
paragraphs. Only, you see, I myself should never have 
thought that so extreme a follower of the exploded old 
doctrine of noblesse oblige., as Sir Philip Bruce-Errington, 
would have started on such a new line of action at all. But, 
of course, we are all mortal 1 ” And he shook his round, 
thick head with leering sagacity. “ Well! ” he continued 
after a pause. “ This shall go in without fail next week, I 
promise you.” 

“ You can send me a hundred copies of the issue,” said 


36^ 


THELMA. 


Sir Francis, taking up his hat to go. “ I suppose you’re 
not afraid of an action for libel ? ” 

Mr. Snawley-Grubbs laughed — nay, he roared, — the idea 
seemed so exquisitely suited to his sense of humor. 

“ Afraid ? My dear fellow, there’s nothing I should like 
better I It would establish the Snake, and make my for- 
tune I I would even go to prison with pleasure. Prison, 
for a first-class misdemeanant, as I should most probably be 
termed, is perfectly endurable.” He laughed again, and 
escorted Sir Francis to the street-door, where he shook 
hands heartily. “ You are sure 3 ^ou won’t come upstairs 
and join us? No? Ah, I see you have a cab waiting. 
Good-night, good-night 1 ” 

And the Snawley-Grubbs door being closed upon him. 
Sir Francis re-entered his cab, and was driven straight to 
his bachelor lodgings in Piccadilly. He was in a better 
humor with himself now, — though he was still angrily con- 
scious of a smart throbbing across the eyes, where Thelma’s 
ringed hand had struck him. He found a brief note from 
Lady Winsleigh awaiting him. It ran as follows : — 

“ You’re playing a losing game this time, — she will be- 
lieve nothing without proofs — and even then it will be 
difficult. You had better drop the pursuit, I fancy. For 
once a woman’s reputation will escape you ! ” 

He smiled bitterly as he read these last words. 

“ Not while a society paper exists 1 ” he said to himself. 
“As long as there are editors willing to accept the word of 
a responsible man of position, for any report, the chastest 
Diana that ever lived shall not escape calumny 1 She 
wants proofs, does she? She shall have them — b 3 ^ Jove! 
she shall ! ” 

And instead of going to bed, he went off to a bijou villa 
in St. John’s Wood, — an elegantly appointed little place, 
which he rented and maintained, — and where the popular 
personage known as Violet Yere, basked in the very lap of 
luxuiy. 

Meanwhile, Thelma paced up and down her own boudoir, 
into which she had escaped through the sliding panel which , 
had baffled her admirer. Her whole frame trembled as she 
thought of the indignity to which she had been subjected 
during her brief unconsciousness, — her face burned with bitter 
shame, — she felt as if she were somehow poisonously infected 
by those hateful kisses of Lennox. — all her womanly and 
wifeiy instincts were outraged. Her first impulse was to 


THE LANE OF MOCEERY, 


363 


tell he husband everything the instant he returned. It was 
she who had rung the bell which had startled Sir Francis, 
and she was surprised that her summons was not answered. 
She rang again, and Britta appeared. 

“ 1 wanted Morris,” said Thelma quickly. 

“ He thought it was the drawing-room bell,” responded 
Britta meekly, for her “ Froken ” looked very angry. “ I 
saw him in the hall just now, letting out Sir Francis 
Lennox.” 

“ Has he gone ? ” demanded Thelma eagerly. 

Britta’s wonder increased. “ Yes, Froken !” 

Thelma caught her arm. “ Tell Morris never, never to 
let him inside the house again — never 1 ” and her blue eyes 
flashed wrathfully. “ He is a wicked man, Britta I You 
do not know how wicked he is ! ” 

“ Oh yes, I do ! ” and Britta regarded her mistress very 
steadfastly. “I know quite well 1 But, then, I must not 
speak I If I dared, I could tell you some strange things, 
dear Froken — but you will not hear me. You know you 
do not wish me to talk about your grand new friends, 
Froken, but ” she paused timidly. 

“ Oh, Britta, dear I ” said Thelma affectionately taking 
her hand. “ You know they are not so much my friends as 
the friends of Sir Philip, — and for this reason I must never 
listen to anything against them. Do you not see ? Of 
course their ways seem strange to us — but, then, life in 
London is so different to life in Norway, — and we cannot all 

at once understand ” she broke cfl', sighing a little. 

Then she resumed — “ Now you will give Morris my 
message, Britta — and then come to me in my bedroom — I 
am tired, and Philip said I was not to wait up for him.” 

Britta departed, and Thelma went rather slowly iip-stairs. 
It was now nearly midnight, and she felt languid and 
weary. Her reflections began to take a new turn. Suppose 
she told her husband all that had occurred, he would most 
certainly go to Sir Francis and punish him in some way — 
there might then be a quarrel in which Philip might suffer 
-^and all sorts of evil consequences would perhaps result 
from her want of reticence. If, on the other hand, she said 
nothing, and simply refused to receive Lennox, would not 
her husband think such conduct on her part strange ? She 
puzzled over these questions till her head ached — and finally 
resolved to keep her own counsel for the present, — after 
what had happened, Sir Francis would most probably not in- 


364 


THELMA. 


trade himself again into her presence. “ I will ask Mrs. 
Lorimer what is best to do,” she thought. “ She is old and 
wise, and she will know.” 

That night, as she laid her head on her pillow, and Britta 
threw the warm eidredon over her, she shivered a little and 
asked — 

“ Is it not very cold, Britta ? ” 

“ Very I ” responded her little maid. And it is begin- 
ning to snow.” 

Thelma looked wistful. It is all snow and darkness 
now at the Altenfj'ord,” she said. 

Britta smiled. “Yes, indeed, Broken I We are better 
off here than there.” 

“ Perhaps I ” replied Thelma a little musingly, and then 
she settled herself as though to sleep. 

Britta kissed her hand, and retired noiselessly. When 
she had gone, Thelma opened her eyes and lay broad awake 
looking at the flicker of rosy light flung on the ceiling from 
the little suspended lamp in her oratory. All snow and 
darkness at the AltenQord I How strange the picture 
seemed! She thought of her mother’s sepulchre, — bow 
cold and dreary it must be, — she could see in fancy the 
long pendent icicles fringing the entrance to the sea-king’s 
tomb, — the spot where she and Philip had first met, — she 
could almost hear the slow, sullen plash of the black Fjord 
against the shore. Her maiden life in Norway — her school- 
days at Arles, — these were now like dreams, — dreams that 
had passed away long, long ago. The whole tenor of her 
existence had changed, — she was a wife, — she was soon to 
be a mother, — and with this near future of new and sacred 
joy before her, why did she to-night so persistently look 
backward to the past ? 

As she lay quiet, watching the glimmering light upon the 
wall, it seemed as though her room were suddenly filled with 
shadowy forms, — she saw her mother’s sweet, sad, suffering 
face, — then her father’s sturdy figure and fine, frank feat- 
ures, — then came the flitting shape of the hapless Sigurd, 
whose plaintive voice she almost imagined she could hear, 
— and feeling that she was growing foolishly nervous, she 
closed her eyes, and tried to sleep. In vain, — her mind be- 
gan to work on a far more nnpleasing train of thought. 
Why did not Philip return ? Where Tvas he ? As though 
some mocking devil had answered her, the words, “ In the 
arms of Violet Yere I ” as uttered by Sir Francis Lennox, 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


365 


recurred to her. Overcome by her restlessness, she started 
up, — she determined to get out of bed, -and put on her 
dressing-gown and read, — when her quick ears caught the 
sound of steps coming up the stair-case. She recognized 
her husband’s firm tread, and understood that he w'as fol- 
lowed by Neville, whose sleeping-apartment was on the 
floor above. She listened attentively — they were talking to- 
gether in low tones on the landing outside her door. 

“ I think it would be much better to make a clean breast 
of it,” said Sir Philip. “ She will have to know some 
day.” 

“ Your wife ? For God’s sake, don’t tell her I ” Neville’s 

voice replied. “ Such a disgraceful ” Here his words 

sank to a w^hisper, and Thelma could not distinguish them. 
Another minute, and her husband entered with soft precau- 
tion, fearing to awake her— she stretched out her arms to 
welcome him, and he hastened to her with an exclamation 
of tenderness and pleasure. 

‘‘ My darling I Not asleep yet ? ” 

She smiled, — but there was something very piteous in her 
smile, had the dim light enabled him to perceive it. 

“No, not yet, Philip! And yet I ■ think I have been 
dreaming of — the Altenfjord.” 

“ Ah ! it must be cold there now,” he answered lightly. 
“ It’s cold enough here, in all conscience. To-night there is 
a bitter east wind, and snow is falling.” 

She heard this account of the weather with almost mor- 
bid interest. Her thoughts instantly betook themselves 
again to Norway, and dwelt there. To the last, — before her 
aching eyes closed in the slumber she so sorely needed, — 
she seemed to be carried away in fancy to a weird stretch 
of gloom-enveloped landscape where she stood entirely 
alone, vaguely wondering at the dreary scene. “ How 
strange it seems ! ” she murmured almost aloud. “ All 
snow and darkness at the Altenflord ! ” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


“ Le temps oil nous nous sommes aimes n’a gudrc dur4, jenne 
fille ; il a pass4 comme un coup de vent ! ” 

Old Breton Ballad. 

The next morning dawned, cold and dismal. A dense 
yellow fog hung over the metropolis like a pall — the street- 


366 


THEUIA. 


lamps were lighted, but their flare scarcely illumined the 
thoroughfares, and the chill of the snow-burdened air pene- 
trated into the warmest rooms, and made itself felt even by 
the side of the brightest fires. Sir Philip woke with an 
uncomfortable sense of headache and depression, and grum- 
bled, — as surely every Englishman has a right to grumble, 
at the uncompromising wretchedness of his country’s winter 
climate. His humor was not improved when a telegram 
arrived before breakfast, summoning him in haste to a dull 
town in one of the Midland counties, on pressing business 
connected with his candidature for Parliament. 

“ What a bore ! ” he exclaimed, showing the missive to 
his wife. “ I must go, — and I shan’t be able to get back to- 
night. You’ll be all alone, Thelma. I wish you’d go to the 
W insleighs I ” 

“ Why ? ” said Thelma quietly. “ I shall much prefer to 
be here. I do not mind, Philip. I am accustomed to be 
alone.” 

Something in her tone struck him as particularly sad, 
and he looked at her intently. 

“ Now, m}’’ darling,” he said suddenly, if this Parlia- 
mentary bother is making you feel worried or vexed in any 
way. I’ll throw it all up — by Jove, I will I ” And he drew 
her into his warm embrace. “ After all,” he added, with a 
laugh, “ what does it matter 1 The country can get on with- 
out me I ” 

Thelma smiled a little. 

You must not talk so foolishly, Philij^,” she said ten- 
derly. “ It is wrong to begin a thing of importance, and 
not go through with it. And I am not worried or vexed at 
all. What would people say of me if I, your wife, were, for 
my own selfish comfort and pleasure of having you always 
with me, to prevent you from taking a good place among 
the men of your nation ? Indeed, I should deserve much 
blame ! And so, though it is a gloomy day for you, poor 
boy, — you must go to this place where 3^00 are wanted, and 
I shall think of you all the time you are gone, and shall be 
so happy to welcome you home to-morrow ! ” 

And she kissed and clung to him for a moment in silence. 
All that day Philip was haunted by the remembrance of 
the lingering tenderness of her farewell embrace. By ten 
o’clock he w^as gone, taking Neville with him ; and after her 
household duties were over, Thelma prepared herself to go 
and lunch with old Mrs. Lorimer, and see what she would 


TEE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


367 


advise concerning the affair of Sir Francis Lennox. But, 
at the same time, she resolved that nothing should make 
her speak of the reports that were afloat about her husband 
and Violet Vere. 

“ I know it is all false,” she said to herself over and over 
again. “ And the people here are as silly as the peasants 
in Bosekop, ready to believe any untruth so long as it gives 
them something to talk about. But they may chatter as 
they please — I shall not say one word, not even to Philip — . 
for it would seem as if I mistrusted him.” 

Thus she put away all the morbid fancies that threatened 
to oppress her, and became almost cheerful. 

And wdiile she made her simple plans for pleasantly pass- 
ing the long, dull day of her husband’s enforced absence, 
her friend. Lady Winsleigh, was making arrangements of a 
very different nature. Her ladyship had received a tele- 
gram from Sir Francis Lennox that morning. The pink 
missive had apparently put her in an excellent humor, 
though, after reading it, she crumpled it up and threw it in 
the waste-paper basket, from which receptacle, Louise 
Renaud, her astute attendant, half an hour later extracted 
it, secreting it in her own pocket for private perusal at 
leisure. She ordered her brougham, saying she was going 
out on business, — and before departing, she took from her 
dressing-case certain bank-notes and crammed them hastily 
into her purse — a purse which, in all good faith, she handed 
to her maid to put in her sealskin muff-bag. Of course, 
Louise managed to make herself aware of, its contents, — 
but when her ladyship at last entered her carriage her un- 
expected order, “ To the Brilliant Theatre, Strand,” was 
sufficient to startle Briggs, and cause him to exchange sur- 
prise signals with “ Mamzelle,” who merely smiled a prim, 
incomprehensible smile. 

“ Where did your la’ship say ? ” asked Briggs dubiousl3^ 

“ Are you getting deaf, Briggs ? ” responded his mis- 
tress pleasantly. “To the Brilliant Theatre I” She 
raised her voice, and spoke wdth distinct emphasis. There 
w’as no mistaking her. Briggs touched his hat, — in the 
same instant he winked at Lousie, and then the carriage 
rolled away. 

At night, the Brilliant Theatre is a pretty little place, — 
comfortable, cosy, bright, and deserving of its name ; — in 
broad day, it is none of these things. A squalid dreari- 
ness seems to have settled upon it — it has a peculiar at- 


368 


THELMA. 


mosphere of its own — an atmosphere dark, heavy, and 
strangely flavored with odors of escaping gas and crushed 
orange-peel. Behind the scenes, these odors mingle with a 
chronic, all-pervading smell of beer — beer, which the 
stranger’s sensitive nose detects directly, in spite of the 
choking clouds of dust which arise from the boards at the 
smallest movement of any part of the painted scenery. 
The Brilliant had gone through much ill-fortune — its pro- 
prietors never realized any financial profit till they secured 
Yiolet Yere. With her came prosperity'. Her utter ab- 
sence of all reserve —the frankness with which she threw 
modesty to the winds, — the vigor with which she danced a 
regular “ break-down,” — roaring a comic song of the lowest 
type, by way of accompaniment, — the energetic manner in 
which, metaphorically speaking, she kicked at the public 
with her shapely legs, — all this overflow of genius on her 
part drew crowds to the Brilliant nightly, and the grateful 
and happy managers paid her a handsome salary, humored 
all her caprices, and stinted and snubbed for her sake, all 
the rest of the company. She was immensely popular — 
the “ golden youth ” of London raved about her dyed hair, 
painted eyes, aud carmined lips — even her voice, as coarse 
as that of a dustman, was applauded to the echo, and her 
dancing excited the wildest enthusism. Dukes sent her 
presents of diamond ornaments — gifts of value which they 
would have possibly refused to their own wives and daugh- 
ters, — Royal Highnesses thought it no shame to be seen 
lounging near her stage dressing-room door, — in short, she 
was in the zenith of her career, and, being thoroughly un- 
principled, audaciously insolent, and wholly without a con- 
science, — she enjoyed herself immensely. 

At the very time when Lady Winsieigh’s carriage was 
nearing the Strand, the grand morning rehearsal of a new 
burlesque was “ on ” at the Brilliant— and Yiolet’s harsh 
tones, raised to a sort of rough masculine roar, were heard 
all over the theatre, as she issued commands or made com- 
plaints according to her changeful humors. She sat in an 
elevated position above the stage on a jutting beam of wood 
painted to resemble the gnarled branch of a tree, — swing- 
ing her legs to and fro and clinking the heels of her shoes 
together in time to the mild scraping of a violin, the 
player whereof was “ trying over ” the first few bars of the 
new jig ” in which she was ere long to distinguish herself. 
She was a handsome woman, with a tine, Mr skin, aud 


tSe land of mockery. 


369 


large, full, dark eyes — she had a wide mouth, which, nearly 
always on the grin, displayed to the full her strong white 
teeth, — her figure was inclined to excessive embonpoint., but 
this rather endeared her to her admirers than otherwise, — 
many of these gentlemen being prone to describe her fleshly 
charms by the epithet “ Prime ! ” as though she were a 
fatting pig or other animal getting ready for killing. 

“ Tommy 1 Tommy ! ” she screeched presently. “ Are 
you going to sleep ? Do you expect me to dance to a dirge, 
you lazy devil I ” 

Tommy, the player of the violin, paused in his efforts, 
and looked up drearily. He was an old man, with a lean, 
long body and pinched features — his lips had a curious way, 
too, of trembling when he spoke, as if he were ready to 
cry. 

“ I can’t help it,” he said slowly. “ I don’t know it yet. 
I must practice it a bit at home. My sight’s not so good 
as it used to be ” 

“ Such a pair of optics, love, youVe never, never seen — 

One my mother blacked last night, the tother it is green ! ” 

sang Violet, to the infinite delight of all the unwashed- 
looking supernumeraries and ballet-girls, who were scattered 
about the stage, talking and laughing. 

“ Shut up. Tommy I ” she continued. “ YoiPre always 
talking about your eyesight. I warn you, if you say too 
much about it you’ll lose your place. We don’t want blind 
fiddlers in the Brilliant. Put down you catgut screamer, 
and fetch me a pint. Ask for the Vere’s own tipple — 
they’ll twig ! ” 

Tommy obeyed, and shuffled off on his errand. As he 
departed, — a little man with a very red face, wearing a 
stove-pipe hat very much on one sid, bounced on the stage 
as if some one had thrown him there like a ball. 

“ Now, ladies, ladies I ” he shouted warningly. “At- 
tention I Once again, please I The last figure once 
again ! ” The straggling groups scrambled hastily into 
something like order, and the little man continued — “ One, 
two, three! Advance — retreat — left, right! Very well, 
indeed! Arms up a little more. Miss Jenkins — so! toes 
well pointed — curtsy — retire ! One, two, three ! swift slide 
to the left wing — forward ! Round — take hands — all smile, 
please ! ” This general smile was apparently not quite sat- 
isfactory, for he repeated persuasively — All smile, please I 


S70 


THELMA. 


So I Round again — more quickly — now break the circle in 

centre — enter Miss Yere ” he paused, growing still 

redder in the face, and demanded, “ Where is Miss Yere ? ” 

He was standing just beneath the painted bough of the 
sham tree, and in one second his hat was dexterously 
kicked off, and two heels met with a click round his neck. 

“ Here I am, pickaninny ! ” retorted Miss Yere holding 
him fast in this novel embrace, amid the laughter of the 
supers. “ You’re getting as blind as Tommy I Steady, 
steady now, donkey ! — steady — woa ! ” And in a thrice she 
stood upright, one foot planted firmly on each of his shoul- 
ders. 

“ No weight, am I, darling ? ” she went on jeeringly, and 
with an inimitably derisive air she put up an eye-glass and 
surveyed the top of his head. “ You want a wig, my dear 
— you do, indeed 1 Come with me to-morrow, and I’ll buy 
you one to suit your complexion. Your wife won’t know 
you I ” 

And with a vigorous jump she sprang down from her po- 
sition, managing to give him a smart hit on the nose as she 
did so — and leaping to the centre of the stage, she posed 
herself to commence her dance — when Tommy came creep- 
ing back in his slow and dismal fashion, bearing something 
in a pewter pot. 

“ That’s the ticket I ” she cried as she perceived him. 
“ I’m as dry as a whole desert I Give it here ! ” And she 
snatched the mug from the feeble hand of her messenger and 
began drinking eagerly. 

The little red-faced man interposed. “ Now, Miss Yi,” 
he said, “ is that brandy ? ” 

“ Rather so ! ” returned the Yere, with a knowing wink, 
“ and a good many things besides. It’s a mixture. The 
‘Yere’s Own!’ Ha, ha I Might be the name of a regi- 
ment I ” 

And she hurried her mouth and nose again in the tankard. 

“ Look here,” said the little man again. “ Why not wait 
till after the dance ? It's bad for you before.” 

“ Oh, is it, indeed I ” screamed Yiolet, raising her face, 
which became suddenly and violently flushed. “ O good 
Lord! Are you a temperance preacher? Teach your 
granny! Bad for me? Say another word, and I’ll box 
your ears for you ! You braying jackass ! — you snivelling 
idiot ! Who makes the Brilliant draw? You or I ? Tell 
me that, you staring old P 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


371 


Here Tommy, who had for some minutes been vainly en- 
deavoring to attract her attention, raised his weak voice to 
a feeble shout. 

“1 say, Miss Yere! I’ve been trying to tell you, but 
you won’t listen ! There’s a lady waiting to see you I ” 

A what ? ” she asked. 

“ A lady I ” continued Tommy, in loud tones. “ A lady 
of title! Wants to see you in private! Won’t detain you 
long 1 ” 

Yiolet Yere raised her pewter mug once more, and 
drained off its contents. 

“ Lord, ain’t I honored I ” she said, smacking her lips with 
a grin. “ A lady of title to see me I Let her wait ! Now 
then 1 ” and snapping her fingers, she began her dance, and 
went through it to the end, with her usual vigor and frank- 
ness. Y^'lien she had finished, she turned to the red-faced 
man who had watched her evolutions with much delight in 
spite of the abuse she had heaped upon him, and said with 
an affected, smirking drawl — 

“ Show the lady of title into my dressing-room ! I shall 
be ready for her in ten minutes. Be sure to mention that I 
am very shy, — and unaccustomed to company I ” 

And, giggling gently like an awkward school-girl, she 
held down her head with feigned bashfulness, and stepped 
mincingly across the stage wdth such a ludicrous air of 
prim propriety, that all her associates burst out laughing, 
and applauded her vociferously. She turned and curtsied 
to them demurely — then suddenly raising one leg in a hor- 
izontal position, she twirled it rapidly in their faces, — then 
she gave a little shocked cough behind her hand, grinned, 
and vanished. 

When, in the stipulated ten minutes, she was ready to 
receive her unknown visitor, she was quite transformed. 
She had arrayed herself in a trailing gown of rich black 
velvet, fastened at the side with jet clasps — a cluster of nat- 
ural, innocent, white violets nestled in the fall of Spanish 
lace at her throat — her face was pale with pearl-powder, — 
and she had eaten a couple of scented bon-bons to drown 
the smell of her recent brandy-tipple. She reclined grace- 
fully in an easy chair, pretending to read, and she rose with 
an admirably acted air of startled surprise, as one of the 
errand boys belonging to the Brilliant tapped at her door, 
and in answer to her “ Come in ! ” announced, “ Lady Wins- 
leigh ! ” 


372 


THELMA. 


A faint, sweet, questioning smile played on the Yere’s 
wide mouth. 

“ I am not aware that I have the honor of ” she be- 

gan, modulating her voice to the requirements of fashion- 
able society, and wondering within herself “ what the 

d 1 ” this woman in the silk and sable-fur costume 

wanted. 

Lady Winsleigh in the meantime stared at her with cold, 
critical eyes. 

“ She is positively rather handsome,” she thought. “ I 
can quite imagine a certain class of men losing their heads 
about her.” Aloud she said — 

“ I must apologize for this intrusion. Miss Yere ! I dare 
say you have never heard my name — I am not fortunate 
enough to be famous, — as yau are.” This with a killing 
satire in her smile. “ May I sit down ? Thanks I I have 
called upon you in the hope that you may perhaps be able 
to give me a little information in a private matter — a mat- 
ter concerning the happiness of a very dear friend of mine.” 
She paused — Yiolet Yere sat silent. After a minute or 
two, her ladyship continued in a somewhat embarrassed 
manner — 

“ I believe you know a gentleman with 'whom I am also 
acquainted — Sir Philip Bruce-Errington.” 

Miss Yere raised her eyes with charming languor and a 
slow smile. 

“ Oh yes ! ” 

“ He visits you, doesn’t he ? ” ' 

“ Frequently I ” 

“ I’m afraid you’ll think me rude and inquisitive,” con- 
tinued Lady Winsleigh, with a coaxing air, “ but — but may 
I ask ” 

“ Anything in the world,” interrupted Yiolet coolly. 

Ask away I But I’m not bound to answer.” 

Lady Winsleigh reddened with indignation. “ What an 
insulting creature ! ” she thought. But, after all, she had 
put herself in her present position, and she could not very 
well complain if she met with a rebuff. She made another 
effort. 

“ Sir Francis Lennox told me ” she began* 

The Yere interrupted her with a cheerful laugh. 

“ Oh, you come from him, do you ? Now, why didn’t you 
tell me that at first ? It’s all right ! You’re a great frie^d 
of Lennie’s, aren’t you?” 


THE LANE OF 3I0CKEEY. 


373 


Lady Winsleigli sat erect and haughty, a deadly chill of 
disgust and fear at her heart. This creature called her 
quondam lover, “ Lennie ” — even as she herself had done, — 
and she, the proud, vain woman of society and fashion 
shuddered at the idea that there should be even this simi- 
larity between herself and the “ thing ” called Violet Vere. 
She replied stiffly — 

“ I have known him a long time.” 

“ He’s a nice fellow,” went on Miss'Yere easily — “ a leetle 
stingy sometimes, but never mind that I You want to 
know about Sir Philip Errington, and I’ll tell you. He’s 
chosen to mix himself up with some affairs of mine ” 

“ What affairs ? ” asked Lady Winsleigh rather eagerly. 

“They don’t concern you,” returned Miss Vere calmly, 
“ and we needn’t talk about them ! But they concern Sir 
Philip, — or he thinks they do, and insists on seeing me 
about them, and holding long conversations, which bore me 
excessively ! ” 

She yawned slightly, smothering her yawn in a dainty 
lace handkerchief, and then went on — 

“ He’s a moral young man, don’t you know — and I never 
could endure moral men ! I can’t get on with them at 
all ! ” 

“ Then you don’t like him? ” questioned Lady Winsleigh 
in rather a disappointed tone. 

“ No, I don’t ! ” said the Vere candidly. “ He’s not my 
sort. But, Lord bless you I I know how he’s getting 
talked about because he comes here — and serve him right 
too I He shouldn’t meddle with my business.” She paused 
suddenly and drew a letter from her pocket, — laughed and 
tossed it across the table. 

“ You can read that, if you like,” she said indifferently. 
“ He wrote it, and sent it round to me last night.” 

Lady Winsleigh’s eyes glistened eagerly, — she recognized 
Errington’s bold, clear hand at once, — and as she read, an 
expression of triumph played on her features. She looked 
up presently and said — 

“ Have you any further use for this letter. Miss Vere? 
Or — will you allow me to keep it ? ” 

The Vere seemed slightly suspicious of this proposal, but 
looked amused too. 

“ Why, what do you want it for ? ” she inquired bluntly. 
“ To tease him about me ? ” 

Lady Winsleigh forced a smile. “ Well — perhaps! ” she 


374 


THELMA. 


admitted , then with an air of gentleness and simplicity she 
continued, “ I think, Miss Vere, with you, that it is very 
wrong of Sir Philip, — very absurd of him, in fact — to in- 
terfere with your affairs, whatever they may be, — and as it 
is very likely annoying to you ” 

“ It w,” interrupted Violet decidedly. 

“ Then, with the help of this letter — which, really — 
veally— excuse me for saying it ! — quite compromises him,” 
and -her ladyship looked amiably concerned about it, “ I 
might perhaps persuade him not to — to — intrude upon you 
— you understand? But if you object to part with the let- 
ter, never mind! If I did not fear to offend you, I should 
ask you to exchange it for — for something more — well I let 
us say, something more substantial ” 

“ Don’t beat about the bush 1 ” said Violet, with a sudden 
oblivion of her company manners. “ You mean money ? ” 

Lady Winsleigh smiled. “ As you put it so frankly. Miss 
Vere ” she began. 

“Of course! I’m always frank,” returned the Vere, 
with a loud laugh. “ Besides, what’s the good of pretend- 
ing ? Money’s the only thing worth having — it pays your 
butcher, baker, and dressmaker — and how are you to get 
along if you can't pay them, I’d like to know I Lord ! if 
all the letters I’ve got from fools were paying stock instead 
of waste-paper, I’d shut up shop, and leave the Brilliant to 
look out for itself! ” 

Lady Winsleigh felt she had gained her object, and she 
could now afford to be gracious. 

“ That would be a great loss to the world,” she remarked 
sweetly. “ An immense loss ! London could scarcely get 
on without Violet Vere ! ” Here she opened her purse and 
took out some bank-notes, which she folded and slipped in- 
side an envelope. “ Then I may have the letter ? ” she con- 
tinued. 

“ You may and welcome 1 ” returned Violet. 

Lady Winsleigh instantly held out the envelope, which she 
as instantly clutched. “ Especially if you’ll tell Sir Philip 
Errington to mind his own business ! ” She paused, and a 
dark flush mounted to her brow — one of those sudden 
flushes that purpled rather than crimsoned her face. “ Yes,” 
she repeated, “ as he’s a friend of yours, just tell him I said 
he was to mind his own business ! Lord ! what does he 
want to come here and preach at me for ! I don’t want his 
sermons ! Moral ! ” here she laughed rather hoarsely, “ I’m 


tbe land of mockery. 


375 


as moral as any one on the stage ! Who says I’m not I 
Take ’em all round — there’s not a soul behind the footlights 
more open and above-board than I am I ” 

And her eyes flashed defiantly. 

“ She’s been drinking ? ” thought Lady Winsleigh dis- 
gustedly. In fact, the “ Yere’s Own ” tipple had begun to 
take its usual effect, which was to make the Yere herself 
both blatant and boisterous. 

“ I’m sure,” said her ladyship with frigid politeness, 
‘‘ that 3^011 are everything that is quite charming. Miss 
Yere ! I have a great respect for the — the oranients of the 
English stage. Society has quite thrown down its former 
barriers, you know ! — the members of your profession are 
received in the very best circles ” 

“ I ain’t I ” said Yiolet, with ungrammatical candor. 
“ Your Irvings and your Terry s, your Mary Andersons and 
your Langtrys, — they’re good enough for your fine draw- 
ing-rooms, and get more invitations out than they can ac- 
cept. And none of them have got half my talent, I tell 
you I Lord bless my soul I if they’re respectable enough 
for you, — so am II” 

And she struck her hand emphatically on the table. 
Lady Winsleigh looked at her with a slight smile. 

“ I must really say good-b^^e I ” she said, rising and 
gathering her furs about her. “ I could talk with you all 
the morning, Miss Y ere, but I have so many engagements ! 
Besides I mustn’t detain you! I’m so much obliged to you 
for your kind reception of me I ” 

“ Don’t mention it I ” and Yiolet glanced her over with a 
kind of sullen sarcasm. “ I’m bound to please Lennie 
when I can, you know ! ” 

Again Lady Winsleigh shivered a little, but forced her- 
self to shake hands with the notorious stage- Jezebel. 

‘‘ I shall come and see you in the new piece,” she said 
graciously. “ I always take a box on first nights ? And 
3'our dancing is so exquisite I The very poetiy of motion I 
So pleased to have met you ! Good-b^^e ! ” 

And with a few more vague compliments and remarks 
about the weather. Lady Winsleigh took her departure. 
Left alone, the actress threw herself back in her chair and 
laughed. 

“ That woman’s up to some mischief,” she exclaimed sotto 
voce., “ and so is Lennie ! I wonder what’s their little 
game ? I don’t care, as long as they’ll keep the high-and- 


376 


THELMA. 


mighty Errington in his place. I’m tired of him ! Why 
does he meddle with my affairs ? ” Her brows knitted into 
a frown. “ As if he or anybody else could persuade me to 

go back to she paused, and bit her lips angrily. 

Then she opened the envelope Lady Winsleigh had left with 
her, and pulled out the bank-notes inside. “ Let me see — ■ 
five, Jen, fifteen, twenty ! Not bad pay, on the whole ! It’ll 
iust cover the bill for my plush mantle. Hullo! Who’s 
there ? ” 

Some one knocked at her door. 

“ Come in ! ” she cried. 

The feeble Tommy presented himself. His weak mouth 
trembled more than ever, and he was apparently conscious 
of this, for he passed his hand nervously across it two or 
three times. 

“ Well, what’s up ? ” inquired the “ star ” of the Brilliant, 
fingering her bank-notes as she spoke. 

“ Miss Yere,” stammered Tommy, “ I venture to ask you 
a favor, — could you kindly, very kindly lend me ten- 
shillings till to-morrow night ? I am so pressed just now — 

and my wife is ill in bed — and ” he stopped, and his 

eyes sought her face hopefully, yet timidly. 

“ You shouldn’t have a wife. Tommy 1 ” averred Yiolet 
with blunt frankness. “ Wives are expensive articles. 
Besides, I never lend. I never give — except to public 
charities where one’s name gets mentioned in the papers. 
I’m obliged to do that, you know, by way of advertisement. 
Ten shillings 1 Why, I can’t afford ten pence ! My bills 
would frighten you. Tommy I There go along, and don’t 
cry, for goodness sake I Let your fiddle cry for you 1 ” 

“ Oh, Miss Yere,” once more pleaded Tomm}^, “ if you 
knew how my wife suffers ” 

The actress rose and stamped her foot impatiently. 

“ Bother your wife ! ” she cried angrily, “ and 3^ou too ! 
Look out I or I tell the manager we’ve got a beggar at the 
Brilliant. Don’t stare at me like that ! Go to the d — 1 
with you ! ” 

Tommy slunk off abashed and trembling, and the Yere 
began to sing, or rather croak, a low comic song, while she 
threw over her shoulders a rich mantle glittering with em- 
broidered trimmings, and poised a coquettish Paris model 
hat on her thick uptwisted coils of hair. Thus attired, she 
passed out of her dressing-room, locking the door behind 
her, and after a brief conversation with the jocose acting 


mE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


3^7 


manager, whom she met on her way out, she left the theatre, 
and took a cab to the Criterion, where the young Puke of 
Moorlands, her latest conquest, had invited her to a sump- 
tuous luncheon with himself and friends, all men of fashion, 
who were running through what money they had as fast as 
the}^ could go. 

Lady W insleigh, on her way home, was tormented by 
sundry uncomfortable thoughts and sharp pricks of con- 
science. Her interview with Violet Vere had instinctively 
convinced her that Sir Philip was innocent of the intrigue 
imputed to him, and yet, — the letter she had now in her 
possession seemed to prove him guilty. And though she 
felt herself to be playing a vile part, she could not resist the 
temptation of trying what the effect would be of this com- 
promising document on Thelma’s trusting mind. It was 
undoubtedly a very incriminating epistle — an}^ lawyer 
would have said as much, while blandly pocketing his fee 
for saying it. It was written off in evident haste, and ran 
as follows : — 

“ Let me see you once more on the subject you know of. 
Why will you not accept the honorable position offered to 
you ? There shall be no stint of money — all the promises I 
have made I am quite ready to fulfill — you shall lose noth- 
ing by being gentle. Surely you cannot continue to seem 
so destitute of all womanly feeling and pity ? I will not 
believe that you would so deliberately condemn to death a 
man who has loved, and who loves yon still so faithfully, 
and who, without you, is utterly weary of life and broken- 
hearted I Think once more — and let m}^ words carry more 
weight with you I 

“ Bruce-Errington.” 

This was all, but more than enough I 

“ I wonder what he means,” thought Lad3^ Winsleigh. 
“ It looks as if he were in love with the V ere and she re- 
fused to reciprocate. It must be that. And yet that 
doesn’t accord with what the creature herself said about his 
‘ preaching at her.’ He wouldn’t do that if he were in 
love.” 

She studied every word of the letter again and again, and 
finally folded it up carefully" and placed it in her pocket- 
book. 

“ Innocent or guilty, Thelma must see it,” she decided, 


^78 


mELMA. 


“ I wonder how she’ll take it I If she wants a proof — it’s 
one she’ll scarcely deny. Some women would fret them- 
selves to death over it — but I shouldn’t wonder if she sat 
down under it quite calmly without a word of complaint:” 
She frowned a little. “ Why must she always be superior 
to others of her sex I How I detest that still solemn smile 
of hers and those big baby-blue eyes I I think if Philip 
had married any other woman than she — a woman more 
like the rest of us who’d have gone with her time, — I could 
have forgiven him more easily. But to pick up a Norwe- 
gian peasant and set her up as a sort of moral finger-post 
to society — and then to go and compromise himself with 
Violet Yere — that’s a kind of thing I can't stand I I’d 
rather be anything in the world than a humbug I ” 

Many people desire to be something they are not, and 
her ladyship quite unconsciously echoed this rather general 
sentiment. She was, without knowing it, such an adept in 
society humbug, that she even humb^ugged herself. She 
betrayed herself as she betrayed others, and told little 
soothing lies to her own conscience as she told them to her 
friends. There are plenty of women like her, — women of 
pleasant courtesy and fashion, to whom truth is mere coarse- 
ness, — and with whom polite lying passes for perfect breed- 
ing. She was not aware, as she was driven along Park 
Lane to her own residence, that she carried with her on the 
box of her brougham a i^rivate detective in the person of 
Briggs. Perched stiffly on his seat, with arms tightly 
folded, this respectable retainer was quite absorbed in med- 
itation, so much so that he exchanged not a word with his 
friend, the coachman, beside him. He had his own notions 
of propriety, — he considered that his mistress had no busi- 
ness whatever to call on an actress of Violet Vere’s repute,, 
— and he resolved that whether he were reproved for OA^er- 
officiousness or not, nothing should prevent him from casu- 
ally mentioning to Lord Winsleigh the object of her lady- 
ship’s drive that morning. 

u mused Briggs gravel}^, “ a lady ’as responsibili- 

ties, and ’owever she forgets ’erself, appearances ’as to be 
kep’ up.” 

With the afternoon, the fog which had hung over the city 
all day, deepened and darkened. Thelma had lunched 
with Mrs. Lorimer, and had enjoyed much pleasant chat 
with that kindly, cheerful old lady. She had confided to 
her, part of the story of Sir Francis Lennox’s conduct, 


THE LAND OF MOCKEFT'. 


37d 


carefully avoiding every mention of the circumstance which 
had given rise to it, — namely, the discussion about T iolet 
Vere. She merely explained that she had suddenly fainted, 
in which condition Sir Francis had taken advantage of her 
helplessness to insult her. 

Mrs. Lorimer was highly indignant. “ Tell your husband 
all about it, my dear ! ” she advised. “ He’s big enough, 
and strong enough, to give that little snob a good trounc- 
ing ! My patience I I wish George were in London — he’d 
lend a hand and welcome I ” 

And the old lady nodded her head violently over the sock 
she was knitting, — the making of socks for her beloved son 
was her principal occupation and amusement. 

“ But I hear,” said Thelma, “ that it is against the law to 
strike any one, no matter how you have been insulted. If 
so, — then Philip would be punished for attacking Sir Fran- 
cis, and that would not be fair.” 

“ You didn’t think of that, child, when you struck Len- 
nox yourself,” returned Mrs. Lorimer, laughing. “ And I 
guarantee you gave him a good hard blow, — and serve him 
right! Never mind what comes of it, my dearie — just tell 
your husband as soon as ever he comes home, and let him 
take the matter into his own hands. He’s a fine man — he’ll 
know how to defend the pretty wife he loves so well 1 ” 
And she smiled, while her shining knitting-needles clicked 
faster than ever. 

Thelma’s face saddened a little. “ I think I am not 
worthy of his love,” she said sorrowfully. 

Mrs. Lorimer looked at her with some inquisitiveness. 

“ What makes you say that, my dear ? ” 

“ Because I feel it so much,” she replied. “ Dear Mrs. 
Lorimer, you cannot, perhaps, understand — but when he 
married me, it seemed as if the old story of the king and 
the beggar-maid were being repeated over again. I sought 
nothing but his love — his love was, and is my life I These 
riches — these jewels and beautiful things he surrounds me 
with — I do not care for them at all, except for the reason 
that he wishes me to have them. I scarcely understand 
their value, for I have been poor all my life, and yet I have 
wanted nothing. I do not think wealth is needful to make 
one happy. But love — ah I I could not live without it — 

and now — now ” She paused, and her eyes filled with 

sudden tears. 

“ Now what ? ” asked Mrs. Lorimer gently. 


380 


THELMA. 


“ Now,” continued the girl in a low voice, “ my heart is 
always afraid ! Yes ! 1 am afraid of losing my husband’s 

love. Ah, do not laugh at me, dear Mrs. Lovimer I You 
know people who are much together sometimes get tired, — 

tired of seeing the same face always, — the same form ” 

“ Are you tired, dearie ? ” asked the old lady meaningly. 
“ I ? Tired of Philip ? I am only happy when he is 
with me 1 ” And her eyes deepened with passionate tender- 
ness. “ I would wish to live and die beside him, and I 
should not care if I never saw another human face than his I ” 
“ Well, and don’t you think he has the same feelings for 
you ? ” 

“ Men are different, I think,” returned Thelma musingly, 
“ Now, love is everything to me — but it may not be every- 
thing to Philip. I do believe that love is only part of a 
man’s life, while it is all a woman’s. Clara told me once 
that most husbands wearied of their wives, though they 

would not always confess it ” 

“ Clara Winsleigh’s modern social doctrines are false, my 
dear ! ” interrupted Mrs. Lorimer quickly. “ She isn’t sat- 
isfied with her own marriage, and she thinks everybody 
must be as discontented as herself. Now, my husband and 
I lived alwa3^s together for five and twenty years, — and we 
were lovers to the last day, when my darling died with his 
hand in mine — and — and — if it hadn’t been for my boy, — I 
should have died too 1 ” 

And two bright tears fell glittering on the old ladj^’s knit- 
ting. 

Thelma took her hand and kissed it fondly. “ I can un- 
derstand that,” she said softly ; “ but still, — still I do be. 
lieve it is difficult to keep love when you have won it I It 
is, perhaps, easy to win — but 1 am sure it is hard to keep I ” 
Mrs. Lorimer looked at her earnestly. 

“ My dear child, don’t let that frivolous Winsleigh 
woman put nonsense into your pretty head. You are too 
sensible to take such a morbid view of things, — and you 
mustn’t allow your wholesome fresh nature to be contam- 
inated by the petulant, wrong-headed notions that cloud the 
brains of idle, fashionable, useless women. Believe me, 
good men don’t tire of their wives — and Sir Philip is a good 
man. Good wives never weary their husbands — and j^ou 
are a good wife — and you will be a good, sweet mother. 
Think of that new delight so soon coming for you, — and 
leave all the modern, crazy, one-sided notions of human life 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


381 


to the French and Kussian novelists. Tut-tut I ” continued 
the old lady tenderly. “ A nice little ladyship you are, — 
worrying yourself about nothing I Send l^liilip to me when 
he comes home — I’ll scold him for leaving his bird to mope 
in her London cage I ” 

“ I do not mope,” declared Thelma. “ And you must 
not scold him, please I Poor boy I He is working so very 
hard, and has so much to attend to. He wants to distin- 
guish himself for — for my sake I ” 

“ That looks very much as if he were tired of you ! ” 
laughed Mrs. Lorimer. “ Though I dare say you’d like 
him to stay at home and make love to you all day I Silly 
girl I You want the world to be a sort of Arcadia, with 
you as Phyllis, and Sir Philip as Corydon I My dear, we’re 
living in the nineteenth century, and the days of fond 
shepherds and languishing shepherdesses are past I ” 

Thelma laughed too, and felt soon ashamed of her de- 
pression. The figure of Yiolet Vere now and then danced 
before her like a mocking will-o’-the-wisp — but her pride 
forbade her to mention this, — the actual source of all her 
vague troubles. 

She left Mrs. Lorimer ’s house, which was near Holland 
Park, about four o’clock, and as she was passing Church 
Street, Kensington, she bade her coachman drive up to the 
Carmelite Church there, familiarly known as the ‘‘ Carms.” 
She entered the sacred edifice, where the service of Bene- 
diction was in progress ; and, kneeling down, she listened 
to the exquisite strains of the solemn music that pealed 
through those dim and shadowy aisles, and a sense of the 
most perfect peace settled soothingly on her soul. Clasp- 
ing her gentle hands, she prayed with innocent and heart- 
felt earnestness — not for herself, — never for herself, — but 
always, always for that dear, most dear one, for w'hom 
every beat of her true heart was a fresh vow of undying 
and devoted affection. 

“ Dear God ! ” she whispered, “ if I love him too much, 
forgive me I Thou who art all Love, wilt pardon me this 
excess of love ! Bless my darling alwa3^s, and teach me 
how to be more worthy of Thy goodness and his tenderness ! ” 

And when she left the church, she was happier and more 
light-hearted than she had been for many a long day. She 
drove home, heedless of the fog and cold, dismal aspect of 
the weather, and resolved to go and visit Lad^^ Winsleigh 
in the evening, so that when Philip came back on the mor- 


382 


THELMA, 


row, she might be able to tell him that she had amused 
herself, and had not been lonely. 

But when she arrived at her own door, Morris, who 
opened it, informed her that Lady Winsleigh was waiting 
in the drawing-room to see her, and had been waiting some 
time. Thelma hastened thither immediately, and held out 
her hands jo^^ously to her friend. 

“ I am so sorry you have had to wait, Clara 1 ” she be- 
gan. “ Why did you not send word and say you were com- 
ing? Philip is away and will not be back to-night, and I 
have been lunching with Mrs. Lorimer, and — why, what 
makes you look so grave ? ” 

Lady Winsleigh regarded her fixedly. How radiantly 
lovely the young wife looked I — her cheeks had neA^er been 
more delicately rosy, or her eyes more brilliant. The dark 
fur cloak she wore with its rich sable trimmings, and the 
little black A^elvet toque that rested on her fair curls, set off 
the beauty of her clear skin to perfection, and her rival, 
who stood gazing at her with such close scrutiny, envied 
her more than ever as she was once again reluctantly 
forced to admit to herself the matchless loveliness of the 
innocent creature whose happiness she now sought to destroy. 

“ Do I look grave, Thelma ? ” she said with a slight 
smile. “ Well, perhaps I’ve a reason for my gravity. And 
so your husband is away ? ” 

“ Yes. He went quite early this morning, — a telegram 
summoned him and he was obliged to go.” Here she drew 
up a chair to the fire, and began to loosen her wraps. ‘‘ Sit 
down, Clara I I will ring for tea.” 

“No, don’t ring,” said Lady Winsleigh. “Not yet I I 
want to talk to you privately.” She sank languidly on a 
velvet lounge and looked Thelma straight in the eyes. 

“ Dear Thelma,” she continued in a sweetly tremulous, 
compassionate voice. “ Can you bear to hear something 
very painful and shocking, something that I’m afraid will 
grieve you very much ? ” 

The color fled from the girl’s fair face — her eyes grew 
startled. 

“What do you mean, Clara? Is it anything about — 
about Philip?” 

Lady Winsleigh bent her head in assent, but remained 
silent. 

“ If,” continued Thelma, with a little return of the rosy 
hue to her cheeks. “ If it is something else about that-^ 


THE LAND OF 3I0CKERY. 


383 


that person at the theatre, Clara, I would rather not hear 
it I I think I have been wrong in listening to any such 
stories — it is so seldom that gossip of any kind is true. It 
is not a wife’s duty to receive scandals about her husband. 
And supix)se he does see Miss Vere, how do I know that it 
may not be on business for some friend of his ? — because I 
do know that on that night when he went behind the scenes 
at the Brilliant, he said it was on business. Mr. Lovelace 
used often to go and see Miss Mary Anderson, all to per- 
suade her to take a play written by a friend of his — and 
Philip, who is always kind-hearted, may perhaps be doing 
something of the same sort. I feel I have been wicked to 
have even a small doubt of my husband’s love, — so, Clara, 
do not let us talk any more on a subject which only dis- 
pleases me.” 

“ You must choose your own way of life, of course,” said 
Lady Winsleigh coldly. “ But you draw rather foolish 
comparisons, Thelma. There is a wide difference between 
Mary Anderson and Violet Vere. Besides, Mr. Lovelace 
is a bachelor, — he can do as he likes and go where he likes 
without exciting comment. However, whether you are 
angry with me or not, I feel I should not be your true 
friend if I did not show you — this. You know your 
husband’s writing I ” 

And she drew out the fatal letter, and continued, watch- 
ing her victim as she spoke, “ This was sent by Sir Philip 
to Violet Vere last night, — she gave it to me herself this 
morning.” 

Thelma’s hand trembled as she took the paper. 

“ Why should I read it ? ” she faltered mechanically. 

Lady Winsleigh raised her eyebrows and frowned im- 
patiently. 

“ Why — why ? Because it is youi duty to do so I Have 
you no pride ? Will you allow your husband to write such 
a letter as that to another woman, — and such a woman too I 
without one word of remonstrance ? You owe it to your- 
self — to your own sense of honor — to resent and resist such 
treatment on his part ! Purely the deepest love cannot 
pardon deliberate injury and insult.” 

“ My love can pardon anything,” answered the girl in a 
low voice, and then slowly, very slowly, she opened the 
folded sheet — slowly she read every word it contained, — 
words that stamped themselves one by one on her bewil- 
dered brain and sent it reeling into darkness and vacancy. 


384 


THELMA. 


She felt sick and cold— she stared fixedly at her husband’s 
familiar handwriting. “ A man who has loved and who 
loves you still, and who without you is utterly weary and 
broken-hearted ! ” 

Thus he wrote of himself to — to Yiolet Vere ! It seemed 
incredible — yet it was true I She heard a rushing sound in 
her ears — the room swung round dizzily before her eyes — 
yet she sate, still, calm and cold, holding the letter and 
speaking no word. 

Lady Winsleigh watched her, irritated at her passionless 
demeanor. 

“ Well I ” she exclaimed at last. “ Have you nothing to 
say ? ” 

Thelma looked up, her eyes burning with an intense 
feverish light. 

“ Nothing I ” she replied. 

“ Nothing f ” repeated her ladyship with emphatic aston- 
ishment. 

“ Nothing against Philip,” continued the girl steadily. 
“ For the blame is not his, but mine I That he is weary 
and broken-hearted must be my fault — though I cannot yet 
understand what I have done. But it must be something, 
because if I were all that he wished he would not have 
grown so tired.” She paused and her pale lips quivered. 
“ I am sorry,” she went on wdth dreamy pathos, “ sorrier 
for him than for myself, because now I see I am in the way 
of his happiness.” A quiver of agony passed over her face, 
— she fixed her large briglit eyes on Lady Winsleigh, who 
instinctively shrank from the solemn speechless despair of 
that penetrating gaze. 

“ Who gave you this letter, Clara ? ” she asked calmly. 

“ I told you before, — Miss Yere herself.” 

“ Why did she give it to you ? ” continued Thelma in a 
dull, sad voice. 

Lady Winsleigh hesitated and stammered a little. “ Well, 
because — because I asked her if the stories about Sir Philip 
were true. And she begged me to ask him not to visit her 
so often.” Then, with an additional thought of malice, she 
said softly. “ She doesn’t wish to wrong you, Thelma, — of 
course, she’s not a very good woman, but I think she feels 
sorry for you ! ” 

The girl uttered a smothered cry of anguish, as though 
she had been stabbed to the heart. She ! — to be actually 
pitied by Yiolet Yere, because she had been unable to keep 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY, 


385 


her husband’s love I This idea tortured her very soul, — 
Dut she was silent. 

‘‘ I thought you were my friend, Clara ? ” she said sud- 
denly, with a strange wistfulness. 

So I am, Thelma,” murmured Lady Winsleigh, a guilty 
flush coloring her cheeks. 

“ You have made me very miserable,” went on Thelma 
gravely, and with pathetic simplicity, “ and I am sorry 
indeed that we ever met. I was so happy till I knew you I 
— and yet I was very fond of you I I am sure you mean 
everything for the best, but I cannot think it is so. And 
it is all so dark and desolate now — why have you taken 
such pains to make me sad? Why have ^-ou so often tried 
to make me doubt my husband’s love ? — why have 3^ou 
come to-day so quickly to tell me I have lost it ? But for 
you, I might never have known this sorrow, — I might have 
died soon, in happy ignorance, believing in my darling’s 
truth as I believe in God I ” 

Her voice broke, and a hard sob choked her utterance. 
For once Lady Winsleigh’s conscience smote her — for once 
she felt ashamed, and dared not offer consolation to the inno- 
cent soul she had so wantonly stricken. For a minute or 
two there was silence — broken only by the monotonous 
ticking of the clock and the crackling of the fire. 

Presently Thelma spoke again. “ I will ask 3^011 to go 
away now and leave me, Clara,” she said simply. “ When 
the heart is sorrowful, it is best to be alone. Good-b3"e I ” 
And she gently held out her hand. 

“ Poor Thelma I ” said Lady Winsleigh, taking it with 
an affectation of tenderness. “ What will you do? ” 

Thelma did not answer ; she sat mute and rigid. 

“ You are thinking unkindly of me just now,” continned 
Clara softly ; “ but I felt it was my duty to tell you the 
worst at once. It’s no good living in a delusion I I’m 
very, very sorry for 3^011, Thelma I ” 

Thelma remained perfectly silent. Lady Winsleigh 
moved towards the door, and as she opened it looked 
back at her. The girl might have been a lifeless figure 
for any movement that could be perceived about her. Her 
face was white as marble — her eyes were fixed on the 
sparkling fire — her very hands looked stiff and pallid as 
wax, as they lay clasped in her lap — the letter — the cruel 
letter, — had fallen at her feet. She seemed as one in a 
trance of misery — and so Lady Winsleigh left her. 

25 


386 


THELMA. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

0 my lord, O Love, 

1 have laid my life at thy feet ; 

Have thy will thereof 

For what shall please thee is sweet ! ” 

Swinburne. 

She roused herself at last. Unclasping her hands, she 
pushed back her hair from her brows and sighed heavily. 
Shivering as with intense cold, she rose from the chair she 
had so long occupied, and stood upright, mechanically 
gathering around her the long fur mantle that she had not 
as yet taken off. Catching sight of the letter w^here it lay, 
a gleaming speck of white on the rich dark hues of the 
carpet, she picked it up and read it through again calmly 
and comprehensively, — then folded it up carefully as 
though it were something of inestimable value. Her 
thoughts were a little confused, — she could only realize 
clearly two distinct things, — first, that Philip was un- 
happy , — secondly, that she was in the wa}^ of his happiness. 
She did not pause to consider how this change in him had 
been effected, — moreover, she never imagined that the letter 
he had written could refer to any one but himself. Hers 
was a nature that accepted facts as they appeared — she 
never sought for ulterior motives or disguised meanings. 
True, she could not understand her husband’s admiration 
for Violet Vere, “ But then ” — she thought — “ many other 
men admire her too. And so it is certain there must be 
something about her that wins love, — something I cannot 
see ! ” 

And presently she put aside all other considerations, and 
only pondered on one thing, — how should she remove her- 
self from the path of her husband’s pleasure ? For she had no 
doubt but that she was an obstacle to his enjoyment. He 
had made promises to Violet Vere which he was “ ready to 
fulfill,” — he offered her “ an honorable position,” — he de- 
sired her “ not to condemn him to death,” — he besought her 
to let his words “ carry more weight with her.” 

“ It is because I am here,” thought Thelma wearily. 
“ She would listen to him if I were gone I ” She had the 


THE LAND OF 3I0CKEBY. 


387 


strangest notions of wifely duty — odd minglings of the 
stern Norse customs with the gentler teachings of Chris- 
tianity, — yet in both cases the lines of woman’s life were 
clearly defined in one word — obedience. Most women, re- 
ceiving an apparent proof of a husband’s infidelity, would 
have made what is termed a “ scene,” — would have con- 
fronted him with rage and tears, and personal abuse, — 
but Thelma w^as too gentle for this, — too gentle to resist 
what seemed to be Philip’s wish and will, and far too proud 
to stay where it appeared evident she was not wanted. 
Moreover she could not bear the idea of speaking to him oi) 
such a subject as his connection with Violet A^ere, — the hoi 
color flushed her cheeks with a sort of shame as she though\i 
of it. 

Of course, she was weak — of course, she was foolish, — 
we will grant th t she was anything the reader chooses to 
call her. It is much better for a woman nowadays to be de- 
fiant rather than yielding, — aggressive, not submissive, — • 
violent, not meek. We all know that I To abuse a hus- 
band well all round, is the modern method of managing 
him! But poor, foolish, loving, sensitive Thelma had 
nothing of the magnificent strength of mind possessed by 
most wives of to-day, — she could only realize that Philip 
— her Philip — was “ utterly weary and broken-hearted ” — 
for the sake of another woman — and that other woman 
actually pitied her! She pitied herself too, a little vaguely 
— her brows ached and thro bed violently — there was a 
choking sensation in her throat, but she could not weep. 
Tears would have relieved her tired brain, but no tears 
fell. She strove to decide on some immediate plan of 
action, — Philip would be home to-morrow, — she recoiled at 
the thought of meeting him, knowing what she knew. 
Glancing dreamily at her own figure, reflected by the lamp- 
light in the long mirror opposite, she recognized that she 
was fully attired in outdoor costume — all save her hat, 
which she had taken off after her first greeting of Lady 
Winsleigh, and w^hich "was still on the table at her side. 
She looked at the clock, — it was five minutes to seven. 
Eight o’clock was ‘her dinner-hour, and thinking of this, 
she suddenly rang the bell. Morris immediately answered 
it. 

“ I shall not dine at home,” she said in her usual gentle 
voice ; “ I am going to see some friend this evening. I may 
not be back till — till late,” 


TREL3IA. 


“ Very well, my lady,” and Morris retired without seeing 
anything remarkable in his mistress’s annoimcement. 
Thelma drew a long breath of relief as he disappeared, and, 
stead3dng her nerves b}" a strong effort, passed into her own 
boudoir, — the little sanctum specially endeared to her by 
Philip’s frequent presence there. How cosy and comfort- 
able a home-nest it looked I — a small fire glowed warmly in 
the grate, and Britta, whose dutj^ it was to keep this par- 
ticular room in order, had lit the lamp, — a rosy globe sup- 
ported by a laughing cupid, — and had drawn the velvet cur- 
tains close at the window to keep out the fog and chilly air 
— there were fragrant flowers on the table, — Thelma’s own 
favorite lounge was drawn up to the fender in readiness for 
her, — opposite to it stood the deep, old-fashioned easy chair 
in which Philip always sat. She looked round upon all 
these familiar things with a dreary sense of strangeness and 
desolation, and the curves of her sweet mouth trembled a 
little and drooped piteously. But her resolve was taken, 
and she did not hesitate or weep. She sat down to her 
desk and wrote a few brief lines to her father — this letter 
she addressed and stamped ready for posting. 

Then for a while she remained apparentl}" lost in painful 
musings, playing with the pen she held, and uncertain what 
to do. Presently she drew a sheet of note-paper toward 
her, and began, “ My darling boy.” As these words ap- 
peared under her hand on the white page, her forced calm 
nearly gave way, — a low cry of intense agony escaped from 
her lips, and, dropping the pen, she rose and paced the room 
restlessly, one hand pressed against her heart as though that 
action could still its rapid beatings. Once more she essayed 
the hard task she had set herself to fulfill — the task of bid- 
ding farewell to the husband in whom her life was centred. 
Piteous, passionate words came quickly from her over- 
charged and almost breaking heart — words, tender, touch- 
ing, — full of love, and absolutely free from all reproach. 
Little did she guess as she wrote that parting letter, what 
desperate misery it would cause to the receiver ! — 

When she had finished it, she felt quieted — even more 
composed than before. She folded and ‘sealed it — then put 
it out of sight and rang for Britta. That little maiden 
soon appeared, and seemed surprised to see her mistress still 
in walking costume. 

“ Have you only just come in, Froken ? ” she ventured to 
inquire, 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


389 


“No, I came home some time ago,” returned Thelma 
gently. “But I was talking to Lady Winsleigh in the 
drawing-room, — and as 1 am going out again this evening I 
shall not require to change my dress. 1 want you to post 
this letter for me, Britta.” 

And she held out the one addressed to her father, Olaf 
Giildmar. Britta took it, but her mind still revolved the 
question of her mistress’s attire. 

“ If you are going to spend the evening with friends,” she 
suggested, “ would it not be better to change ? ” 

“ 1 have on a velvet gown,” said Thelma, with a rather 
wearied patience. “ It is quite dressy enough for where I 
am going.” She paused abruptly, and Britta looked at her 
inquiringly. 

“ Are you tired, Froken Thelma ? ” she asked. “ You are 
so pale I ” 

“ I have a slight headache,” Thelma answered. “ It is 
nothing, — it will soon pass. I wish you to post that letter 
at once, Britta.” 

“ Very well, Froken.” Britta still hesitated. “Will you 
be out all the evening ? ” was her next query. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then perhaps you will not mind if I go and see Louise, 
and take supper with her ? She has asked me, and Mr. 
Briggs ” — here Britta laughed — “ is coming to see if I can 
go. He will escort me, he says I ” And she laughed again. 

Thelma forced herself to smile. “You can go, by all 
means, Britta I But I thought you did not like Lady Win- 
sleigh’s French maid ? ” 

“ I don’t like her much,” Britta admitted — “ still, she 
means to be kind and agreeable, I think. And ” — here 
she eyed Thelma with a mysterious and important air — “ I 
want to ask her a question about something very partic- 
ular.” 

“ Then, go and stay as long as you like, dear,” said 
Thelma, a sudden impulse off affection causing her to caress 
softly her little maid’s ruffled brown curls, “ I shall not be 
back till — till quite late. And when you return from the 
post, I shall be gone — so — good-bye I ” 

“ Good-bye ! ” exclaimed Britta wonderingly. “ Why, 
where are you going ? One would think you were starting 
on a long journey. You speak so strangely, Froken I ” 

“ Do I ? ” and Thelma smiled kindly. “ It is because my 


3d0 


THELMA. 


head aches, I suppose. But it is not strange to say good* 
bye, Britta ! ” 

Britta caught her hand. ** Where are you going ? ” she 
persisted. 

“ To see some friends,” responded Thelma quietly. “ Now 
do not ask any more questions, Britta, but go and post my 
letter. I want father to get it as soon as possible, and you 
will lose the post if you are not very quick.” 

Thus reminded, Britta hastened off, determining to run 
all the way, in order to get back before her mistress left the 
house. Thelma, however, was too quick for her. As soon 
as Britta had gone, she took the letter she had written to 
Philip, and slipped it within the pages of a small volume 
of poems he had lately been reading. “ It was a new book, 
entitled “ Gladys the Singer,” and its leading metif was 
the old, never-exhausted subject of a woman’s too faithful 
love, betrayal, and despair. As she opened it, her eyes fell 
by chance on a few lines of hopeless yet musical melan- 
choly, which, like a sad song heard suddenly, made her 
throat swell with rising yet restrained tears. They ran 
thus : — 

“ Oh ! I can drown, or, like a broken lyre, 

Be thrown to earth, or cast upon a fire, — 

I can be made to feel the pangs of death. 

And yet be constant to the quest of breath, — 

Our poor pale trick of living through the lies 
We name Existence when that ‘ something ’ dies 
Which we call Honor. Many and many a way 
Can I be struck or fretted night or day 
In some new fashion, — or condemn’d the while 
To take for food the semblance of a smile, — 

The left-ofif rapture of a slain caress, — ” 

Ah ! — she caught her breath sobbingly, “ The left-off rap- 
ture of a slain caress ! ” Yes, — that would be her portion 
now if — if she stayed to receive it. But she would not 
stay I She turned over the volume abstractedly, scarcely 
conscious of the action, — and suddenly, as if the poet- 
writer of it had been present to probe her soul and make 
her inmost thoughts public, she read : — 

“ Because I am unlov’d of thee to-day, 

And undesired as sea-weeds in the sea ! ” 

Yes ! — that was the “ because ” of everything that swayed 
her sorrowful spirit, — “ because ” she was “ unlov’d and 
undesired.” 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


391 


She hesitated no longer, but shut the book with her fare- 
well letter inside it, and put it back in its former place on 
the little table beside Philip’s arm-chair. Then she con- 
sidered how she should distinguish it by some mark that 
should attract her husband’s attention toward it, — and 
loosening from her neck a thin gold chain on which was 
suspended a small diamond cross with the names “ Philip ” 
and “ Thelma ” engraved at the back, she twisted it round 
the little book, and left it so that the sparkle of the jewels 
should be seen distinctly on the cover. Now was there any- 
thing more to be done ? She divested herself of all her val- 
uable ornaments, keeping only her wedding-ring and its 
companion circlet of brilliants, — she emptied her purse of 
all money save that which was absolutely necessary for her 
journey — then she put on her hat, and began to fasten her 
long cloak slowly, for her fingers were icy cold and trembled 
very strangely. Stay, — there was her husband’s portrait, 
— she might take that, she thought, with a sort of touching 
timidity. It was a miniature on ivory — and had been 
painted expressly for her, — she placed it inside her dress, 
against her bosom. 

“ He has been too good to me,” she murmured ; “ and I 
have been too happy, — happier than I deserved to be. Ex- 
cess of happiness must always end in sorrow.” 

She looked dreamily at Philip’s empty chair — in fancy 
she could see his familiar figure seated there, and she sighed 
as she thought of the face she loved so well, — the passion 
of his eyes, — the tenderness of his smile. Softly she kissed 
the place where his head had rested, — then turned resolutely 
away. 

She was giving up everything, she thought, to another 
woman, — but then — that other woman, however incredible 
it seemed, was the one Philip loved best, — his own written 
words were a proof of this. There was no choice therefore, 
— his pleasure was her first consideration, — everything 
must yield to that, so she imagined, — her own life was 
nothing, in her estimation, compared to his desire. Such 
devotion as hers was of course absurd — it amounted to weak 
self-immolation, and would certainly be accounted as su- 
premely foolish by most women who have husbands, and 
who, when they swear to “ obey,” mean to break the vow 
at every convenient opportunity — but Thelma could not 
alter her strange nature, and, with her, obedience meant 
the extreme letter of the law of utter submission. 


392 


THELMA. 


Leaving the room she had so lately called her own, she 
passed into the entrance-hall. Morris was not there, and 
she did not summon him, — she opened the street-door for 
herself, and shutting it quietly behind her, she stood alone 
in the cold street, where the fog had now grown so dense 
that the lamp-posts were scarcely visible. She walked on 
for a few paces rather bewildered and chilled by the piercing 
bitterness of the air, — then, rallying her forces, she hailed a 
passing cab, and told the man to take her to Charing Cross 
Station. She was not familiar with London — and Charing 
Cross was the only great railway terminus she could just 
then think of. 

Arrived there, the glare of the electric light, the jostling 
passengers rushing to and from the trains, the shouts and 
wrangling of porters and cabmen, confused her not a little, 
— and the bold looks of admiration bestowed on her freely 
by the male loungers sauntering near the doors of the res- 
taurant and hotel, made her shrink and tremble for shame. 
She had never travelled entirely alone before — and she be- 
gan to be frightened at the pandemonium of sights and 
noises that surged around her. Yet she never once thought 
of returning, — she never dreamed of going to any of her 
London friends, lest on hearing of her trouble they 
might reproach Philip — and this Thelma would not have 
endured. For the same reason, she had said nothing to 
Britta. 

In her then condition, it seemed to her that only one 
course lay open for her to follow, — and that was to go 
quietly home, — home to the AltenQord. No one would be 
to blame for her departure but herself, she thought, — and 
Philip would be free. Thus she reasoned, — if, indeed, she 
reasoned at all. But there was such a frozen stillness in 
her soul — her senses were so numbed with pain, that as yet 
she scarcely realized either what had happened or what she 
herself was doing. She was as one walking in sleep — the ' 
awakening, bitter as death, was still to come. 

Presently a great rush of peoi)le began to stream towards 
her from one of the platforms, and trucks of luggage, her- 
alded by sliouts of, “ Out of the way, there ! ” and “ By’r 
leave I ” came trundling rapidly along — the tidal train from 
the Continent had just arrived. 

Dismayed at the incieasiiig confusion and uproar, Thelma 
addressed herself to an otlicial with a gold band round his 
hat. 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


393 


Can you tell me,” she asked timidly, “ where I shall 
take a ticket for Hull ? ” 

The man glanced at the fair, anxious face, and smiled 
good-humoredly. 

“ You’ve come to the wrong station, miss,” he said. 
“ You want the Midland line.” 

“ The Midland ? ” Thelma felt more bewildered than 
ever. 

“ Yes, — the Midland he repeated rather testily. “ It’s a 
good way from here — you’d better take a cab.” 

She moved away, — but started and drew herself back 
into a shadowed corner, coloring deeply as the sound of a 
rich, mellifluous voice, which she instantly recognized, 
smote suddenly on her ears. 

“ And as I before remarked, my good fellow,” the voice 
was saying, “ I am not a disciple of the semi-obscure. If 
a man has a thought which is worth declaring, let him 
declare it with a free and noble utterance — don’t let him 
wrap it up in multifarious parcels of dreary verbosity \ 
There’s too much of that kind of thing going on nowa- 
days — in England, at least. There’s a kind of imitation of 
art which isn’t art at all, — a morbid, bilious, bad imitation. 
You only get close to the real goddess in Italy. I wish 
I could persuade you to come and pass the winter with me 
there ? ” 

It was Beau Lovelace who spoke, and he was talking to 
George Lorimer. The two had met in Paris, — Lovelace 
was on his way to London, where a matter of business/ 
summoned him for a few days, and Lorimer, somewhat tired! 
of the French capital, decided to return with him. And' 
here they were, — just arrived at Charing Cross, — and they 
walked across the station arm in arm, little imagining who 
watched them from behind the shelter of one of the waiting- 
room doors, with a yearning sorrow in her grave blue eyes. 
They stopped almost opposite to her to light their cigars, — 
she saw Lorimer’s face quite distinctly, and heard his 
answer to Lovelace. 

“ Well, I’ll see what I can do about it. Beau I You 
know my mother always likes to get away from London in 
winter — but whether we ought to inflict ourselves upon 
you, — you being a literary man too ” 

“ Nonsense, you won’t interfere in the least with the flow 
of inky inspiration,” laughed Beau. “ And as for your 
mother, I’m in love with her, as you are aware I I admire 


394 


THELMA, 


her almost as much as I do Lady Brnce-Errington — and 
that’s saying a great deal I By-the-by, if Phil can get 
through his share of this country’s business, he might do 
worse than bring his beautiful Thelma to the Lake of Como 
for a while. I’ll ask him I ” 

And having lit their Havannas successfully, they walked 
on and soon disappeared. For one instant Thelma felt 
strongly inclined to run after them, like a little forlorn 
child that had lost its way, — and, unburdening herself of 
all her miseries to the sympathetic George, entreat, with 
tears, to be taken back to that husband who did not want 
her any more. But she soon overcame this emotion, — and 
calling to mind the instructions of the official personage 
whose advice she had sought, she hurried out of the huge, 
brilliantly lit station, and taking a hansom, was driven, as 
she requested, to the Midland. Here the rather gloomy 
aspect of the place oppressed her as much as the garish 
bustle of Charing Cross had bewildered her, — but she was 
somewhat relieved when she learned that a train for Hull 
would start in ten minutes. Huriying to the ticket-office 
she found there before her a kindly faced woman with a 
bab}^ in her arms, who was just taking a third-class ticket 
to Hull, and as she felt lonely and timid, Thelma at once 
decided to travel third-class also, and if possible in the same 
compartment with this cheerful matron, who, as soon as she 
had secured her ticket, walked away to the train, hushing 
her infant in her arms as she went. Thelma followed her 
at a little distance — and as soon as she saw her enter a 
third-class carriage, she hastened her steps and entered 
also, quite thankful to have secured some companionship 
for the long cold journey. The woman glanced at her a 
little curiously — it was strange to see so lovely and young 
a creature travelling all alone at night, — and she asked 
kindly 

“ Be you goin’ fur, miss ? ” 

Thelma smiled — it was pleasant to be spoken to, she 
thought. 

“ Yes,” she answered. “ All the way to Hull.” 

“ ’Tis a cold night for a journey,” continued her com- 
panion. 

“ Yes, indeed,” answerc 1 Thelma. “ It must be cold for 
your little baby.” 

And unconsciously her voice softened and her eyes grew 
sad as she looked across at the sleeping infant. 


fEE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


395 


“ Oh, he’s as warm as toast 1 ” laughed the mother 
cheerily. “ He gets the best of everything, he do. It’s 
yourself that’s looking cold, my dear in spite of your 
warm cloak. Will ye have this shawl ? ” 

And she offered Thelma a homely gray woollen wrap with 
much kindly earnestness of manner. 

“ I am quite warm, thank you,” said Thelma gently, ac- 
cepting the shawl, however, to please her fellow-traveller. 
“ It is a headache I have which makes me look pale. And 
I am very, very tired 1 ” 

Her voice trembled a little, — she sighed and closed her 
eyes. She felt strangely weak and giddy, — she seemed to 
be slipping away from herself and from all the comprehen- 
sion of life, — she wondered vaguely who and what she was. 
Had her marriage with Philip been all a dream ? — perhaps 
she had never left the Alten^ord after all I Perhaps she 
would wake up presently and see the old farm-house quite 
unchanged, with the doves flying about the roof, and Sigurd 
wandering under the pines as was his custom. Ah, dear 
Sigurd I Poor Sigurd 1 he had loved her, she thought — 
nay, he loved her still, — he could not be dead 1 Oh, yes, — 
she must have been dreaming, — she felt certain she was 
lying on her own little white bed at home, asleep ; — she would 
by-and-by open her eyes and get up and look through her 
little latticed window, and see the sun sparkling on the 
water, and the Eulalie at the anchor in the Fjord — and her 
father would ask Sir Philip and his friends to spend the 
afternoon at the farm-house — and Philip would come and 
stroll with her through the garden and down to the shore, 
and would talk to her in that low, caressing voice of his, — 
and though she loved him dearly, she must never, never let 
him know of it, because she was not worthy 1 . . . She 

woke from these musings with a violent start and a sick 
shiver running through all her frame, — and looking wildly 
about her, saw that she was reclining on some one’s 
shoulder, — some one was dabbing a wet hankerchief on her 
forehead — her hat was off and her cloak was loosened. 

“ There, my dear, you’re better now I ” said a kindly 
voice in her ear. “ Lor 1 I thought you was dead — that I 
did I ’Twas a bad faint indeed. And with the train jolting 
along like this too I It was lucky I had a flask of cold wa- 
ter with me. Raise your head a little — that’s it ! Poor 
thing, — you’re as white as a sheet I You’re not fit to travel, 
my dear — you’re not indeed.” 




Thelma raised herself slowly, and with a sudden impulse 
kissed the good woman’s honest, rosy face, to her intense 
astonishment and pleasure. 

You are very kind to me I ” she said tremulously. “ I 
am so sorry to have troubled you. I do feel ill — but it will 
soon pass.” 

And she smoothed her ruffled hair, and sitting up erect, 
endeavored to smile. Her companion eyed her pale face 
compassionately, and taking up her sleeping baby from the 
shawl on which she had laid it while ministering to Thel- 
ma’s needs, b^gan to rock it slowly to and fro. Thelma, 
meanwhile, became sensible of the rapid movement of the 
train. 

“We have left London ? ” she asked with an air of sur- 
prise. 

“ Nearly half an hour ago, my dear.” Then, after a 
pause, during which she had watched Thelma very closely, 
she said — 

“ I think you’re married, aren’t you, dearie ?” 

“ Yes.” Thelma answered, a slight tinge of color warm- 
ing her fair pale cheeks. 

“ Your husband, maybe, will meet 3^011 at Hull ?” 

“ No, — he is in London,” said Thelma simply. “ I am go- 
ing to see my father.” 

This answer -satisfied her humble friend, who, noticing 
her extreme fatigue and the efibrt it cost her to speak, for- 
bore to ask any more questions, but good-naturedly recom- 
mended her to try and sleep. She slept soundly herself for 
the greater part of the journey; but Thelma was now 
feverishly wide awake, and her eyeballs ached and burned 
as though there were fire behind them. 

Gradually her nerves began to be wound up to an ex- 
treme tension of excitement — she forgot all her troubles in 
listening with painful intentness to the rush and roar of 
the train through the darkness. The lights of passing 
stations and signal-posts gleamed like scattered and flying 
stars — there was the frequent shriek of the engine-whistle, 
— the serpent-hiss of escaping steam. She peered through 
the window — all was blackness ; there seemed to be no 
earth, no sky, — onl}'^ a sable chaos, through which the train 
flew like a flame-mouthed demon. Always that rush and 
roar I She began to feel as if she could stand it no longer. 

She must escape from that continuous, confusing sound —it 

maddened her brain. Nothing was easier; she would open 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


397 


the carriage-door and get out I Surely she could manage 
to jump oil the step, even though the train was in motion I 

Danger 1 She smiled at that idea, — there was no danger; 
and, if there was, it did not much matter. Nothing mat- 
tered now, — now that she had lost her husband’s love. She 
glanced at the woman opposite, who slept profoundly — the 
baby had slipped a little from its mother’s arms, and lay 
with its tiny face turned towards Thelma. It was a pretty 
creature, with soft cheeks and a sweet little mouth, — she 
looked at it with a vague, wild smile. Again, again that 
rush and roar surged like a storm in her ears and distracted 
her mind I She rose suddenly and seized the handle of the 
carriage door. Another instant, and she would have sprung 
to certain death, — when suddenl}^ the sleeping baby woke, 
and, opening its mild blue eyes, gazed at her. 

She met its glance as one fascinated, — almost uncon- 
sciously her fingers dropped from the door-handle, — the lit- 
tle baby still looked at her in dreamlike, meditative fashion, 
— its mother slept profoundly. She bent lower and lower 
over the child. With a beating heart she ventured to touch 
the small, pink hand that lay outside its wrappings like a 
softly curved rose-leaf. With a sort of elf-like confidence 
and contentment the feeble, wee fingers closed and curled 
round hers, — and held her fast ! Weak as a silken thread, 
yet stronger in its persuasive force than a grasp of iron, 
that soft, light pressure controlled and restrained her, 
. . . very gradually the mists of her mind cleared, — the 

rattling, thunderous dash of the train grew less dreadful, 
less monotonous, less painful to her sense of hearing, — her 
bosom heaved convulsively, and all suddenly her eyes filled 
with rears — merciful tears, which at first welled up slowly, 
and were hot as fire, but which soon began to fall faster and 
faster in large, bright drops down her pale cheeks. Seeing 
that its mother still slept, she took the baby gently into her 
own fair arms, — and rocked it to and fro with many a sob- 
bing murmur of tenderness ; — the little thing smiled drows- 
ily and soon fell asleep again, all unconscious that its 
timely look and innocent touch had saved poor Thelma’s 
life and reason. 

She, meanwhile, wept on softly, till her tired brain and 
heart were somewhat relieved of their heavy burden, — the 
entanglement of her thoughts became unravelled, — and, 
though keenly aware of the blank desolation of her life, she 
was able to raise herself in spirit to the Giver of all Love 


THELMA, 


and Consolation, and to pray humbly for that patience and 
resignation which now alone could serve her needs. And 
she communed with herself and God in silence, as the train 
rushed on northwards. Her fellow-traveller woke up as 
they were nearing their destination, and, seeing her holding 
the baby, was profuse in her thanks for this kindness. 
And when they at last reached Hull, about half an hour 
after midnight, the good woman was exceedingly anxious 
to know if she could be of any service, — but Thelma 
gentl}’’, yet firmly, refused all her offers of assistance. 

They parted in the most friendly manner, — Thelma kiss- 
ing the child, through whose unconscious means, as she now 
owned to herself, she had escaped a terrible death, — and 
then she went directly to a quiet hotel she knew of, which 
was kept by a native of Christiania, a man who had for- 
merly been acquainted with her father. At first, when this 
worthy individual saw a lady arrive, alone, young, richly 
dressed, and without luggage, he was inclined to be suspi- 
cious, — but as soon as she addressed him in Norwegian, and 
told him who she was, he greeted her with the utmost de- 
ference and humility. 

“ The daughter of Jarl Guldmar,” he said, continuing to 
speak in his own tongue, “ honors my house by entering 
it I ” 

Thelma smiled a little. “ The da3"s of the great Jarls 
are past, Friedhof,” she replied somewhat sadly, “ and my 
father is content to be what he is, — a simple bonde.^^ 

Friedhof shook his head quite obstinately. “ A Jarl is 
always a Jarl,” he declared. “ Nothing can alter a man’s 
birth and nature. And the last time I saw Yaldemar 
Svensen, — he who lives with your father now, — he was care- 
ful alwa3'^s to speak of the Jarl, and seldom or never did he 
mention him in any other fashion. And now, noble Frbken, 
in what' manner can I serve you ? ” 

Thelma told him briefly that she was going to see her 
father on business, and that she was desirous of starting for 
Norwa}^ the next day as early as possible. 

Friedhof held up his hands in amazement. “ Ah ! most 
surely you forget,” he exclaimed, using the picturesque ex- 
pressions of his native speech, “ that this is the sleeping 
time of the sun ! Even at the Hardanger Fjord it is dark 
and silent, — the falling streams freeze with cold on their 
way ; and if it is so at the Hardanger, what will it be at 


THE LAND OF MOCNEBY. 


399 


the Alten ? And there is no passenger ship going to Chris- 
tiania or Bergen for a fortnight ! ” 

Thelma clasped her hands in dismay. “ But I must go ! ” 
she cried impatiently ; “ I must, indeed, good Friedhof I I 
cannot stay here I Surely, surely there is some vessel that 
would take me, — some fishing boat, — what does it matter 
how I travel, so long as I get away ? ” 

The landlord looked at her rather wonderingly. “ Nay, 
if it is indeed so urgent, noble Froken,” he replied, “ do not 
trouble, for there is a means of making the journey. But 
for 2/ow, and in such bitter weather, it seems a cruelty to 
speak of it. A steam cargo-boat leaves here for Hammer- 
fest and the North Cape to-morrow — it will pass the Alten- 
Qord. No doubt you could go with that, if you so choose, 
— but there will be no warmth or comfort, and there are 
heavy storms on the North Sea. I know the captain ; and 
’tis true he takes his wife with him, so there would be a 
woman on board, — ^yet ” 

Thelma interrupted him. She pressed two sovereigns 
into his hand. 

“ Say no more, Friedhof,” she said eagerly. “ You will 
take me to see this captain — you will tell him I must go 
with him. My father will thank you for this kindness to 
me, even better than I can.” 

“ It does not seem to me a kindness at all,” returned 
Friedhof with frank bluntness. “ I would be loth to sail 
the seas myself in such weather. And I thought you were 
so grandly married, Froken Giildmar, — though I forget 
your wedded name, — how comes it that your husband is not 
with you ? ” 

“ He is very busy in London,” answered Thelma. “ He 
knows where I am going. Do not be at all anxious, Fried- 
hof, — I shall make the journey very well and I am not 
afraid of storm or wild seas.” 

Friedhof still looked dubious, but finally yielded to her 
entreaties and agreed to arrange her passage for her in the 
morning. 

She stayed at his hotel that night, and with the very 
early dawn accompanied him on board the ship he had 
mentioned. It was a small, awkwardly built craft, with an 
ugly crooked black funnel out of which the steam was hiss- 
ing and spitting with quite an unnecessary degree of vio- 
lence — the decks were wet and dirty, and the whole vessel 
was pervaded with a sickening smell of whale-oil. Th^ 


400 


THELMA. 


captain, a gruff red-faced fellow, looked rather surlily at his 
unexpected passenger — but was soon mollified by her 
gentle manner, and the readiness with which she paid the 
money he demanded for taking her. 

“ You won’t be very warm,” he said, eyeing her from 
head to foot — “ but I can lend you a rug to sleep in.” 

Thelma smiled and thanked him. He called to his wife, 
a thin, overworked-looking creature, who put up her head 
from a window in the cabin, at his summons. 

“ Here’s a lady going with us,” he announced. “ Look 
after her, will you ? ” The woman nodded. Then, once 
more addressing himself to Thelma, he said, “ We shall 
have nasty weather and a wicked sea ! ” 

“ I do not mind ! ” she answered quietly, and turning to 
Friedhof who had come to see her oft*, she shook hands 
with him warmly and thanked him for the trouble he had 
taken in her behalf. The good landlord bade her farewell 
somewhat reluctantly, — he had a presentiment that there 
was something wrong w’ih the beautiful, golden-haired 
daughter of the Jarl — and that perhaps he ought to have 
prevented her making this uncomfortable and possibly per- 
ilous voyage. But it was too late now, — and at a little be- 
fore seven o’clock, the vessel, — which rejoiced in the name 
of the Black Polly., — left the harbor, and steamed fussily 
down the Humber in the teeth of a sudden storm of sleet 
and snow. 

Her departure had no interest for any one save Friedhof, 
who stood watching her till she was no more than a speck 
on the turbid water. He kept his post, regardless of the 
piercing cold of the gusty, early morning air, till she had 
entirely disappeared, and then returned to his own house 
and his daily business in a rather depressed frame of mind. 
He was haunted by the pale face and serious e^^es of 
Thelma — she looked very ill, he thought. He began to re- 
proach himself, — why had he been such a fool as to let her 
go? — why had he not detained her? — or at any rate, per- 
suaded her to rest a few days in Hull ? He looked at the 
threatening sky and the falling fiakes of snow with a 
shiver. 

“What weather!” he muttered, “ and there must be a 
darkness as of death at the Altenfjord ! ” 

Meanwhile the Black Polly — unhandsome as she was in 
appearance, struggled gallantly with and overcame an 
army of furious waves that rose to greet her as she roundecl 


THE LAND OF 3I0CKEBY. 


401 


Spurn Head, and long ere Thelma closed her weary eyes in 
an effort to sleep^ was plunging, shivering, and fighting her 
slow way through shattering mountainous billows and a 
tempest of sleet, snow, and tossing foam across the wild 
North Sea. 


CHAPTER XXYII. 

“ What of her glass without her ? The blank grey 
There, where the pool is blind of the moon’s face — 

Her dress without her? The tossed empty space 
Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away ! ” 

Dante G. Rossetti. 

“Good God I” cried Errington impatiently. “What’s 
the matter ? Speak out 1 ” 

He had just arrived home. He had barely set foot 
within his own door, and full of lover-like ardor and eager- 
ness was about to hasten to his wife’s room, — when his old 
servant Morris stood in his way trembling and pale-faced, 
— looking helplessly from him to Neville,— who was as 
much astonished as Sir Philip, at the man's woe-begone 
appearance. 

“ Something has happened,” he stammered faintly at last. 
“ Her ladyship ” 

Philip started — his heart beat quickly and then seemed 
to grow still with a horrible sensation of fear. 

“ What of her ? ” he demanded in low hoarse tones. “Is 
she ill?” 

Morris threw up his hands with a gesture of despair. 

“ Sir Philip, my dear master I ” cried the poor old man. 
“ I do not know whether slie is ill or well — I cannot guess 1 
My lady went out last night at a little before eight o’clock, 
— and — and she has never come home at all ! We cannot 
tell what has become of her ! She has gone 1 ” 

And tears of distress and anxiety filled his eyes. Philip 
stood mute. He could not understand it. All color fled 
from his face — he seemed as though he had received a sud- 
den blow on the head which had stunned him. 

“ Gone I ” he said mechanically. “ Thelma — my wife 
gone I Why should she go ? ” 

And he stared fixedly at Neville, who laid one hand 
soothingly on his arm. 

“ Perhaps she is with friends,” he suggested. “ She ma^ 
be at Lady Winsleigh’s or Mrs. Lonmer’s*’’ 


402 


THELMA. 


No, no I ” interrupted Morris. “ Britta, who stayed up 
all night for her, has since been to every house that my 
lady visits and no one has seen or heard of her ! ” 

“ Where is Britta ? ” demanded Philip suddenly. 

“ She has gone again to Lady Winsleigh’s,” answered 
Morris, “ she sa3^s it is there that mischief has been done, — 
I don't know what she means I ’’ 

Philip shook off his secretaiy’s sympathetic touch, and 
strode through the rooms to Thelma’s boudoir. He put 
aside the velvet curtains of the portiere with a noiseless 
hand — somehow he felt as if, in spite of all he had just 
heard, she muat be there as usual to welcome him with that 
serene sweet smile which was the sunshine of his life. The 
empty desolate air of the room smote him with a sense of 
bitter pain, — only the plaintive warble of her pet thrush, 
who was singing to himself most mournfully in his gilded 
cage, broke the heavy silence. He looked about him va- 
cantly. All sorts of dark forebodings crowded on his mind, 
— she must have met with some accident, he thought with a 
shudder, — for that she would depart from him in this sud- 
den way of her own accord for no reason whatsoever seemed 
to him incredible — impossible. 

“ What have I done that she should leave me ? ” he asked 
half aloud and wonderingly. Everything that had seemed 
to him of worth a few hours ago became valueless in this 
moment of time. What cared he now for the business of 
Parliament — for distinction or honors among men ? Noth- 
ing — less than nothing ! Without her, the world was empty 
— its ambitions, its pride, its good, its evil, seemed but the 
dreariest and most foolish trifles I 

“ Not even a message ? ” he thought. “No hint of where 
she meant to go — no word of explanation for me ? Surely 
I must be dreaming — my Thelma would never have de- 
serted me 1 ” 

A sort of sob rose in his throat, and he pressed his hand 
strongly over his eyes to keep down the w’omanish drops 
that threatened to overflow them. After a minute or two, 
he went to her desk and opened it, thinking that there per- 
haps she might have left a note of farewell. There was 
nothing— nothing save a little heap of money and jewels. 
These Thelma had herself placed, before her sorrowful, si- 
lent departure, in the corner where he now found them. 

More puzzled than ever, he glanced searchingly round 
the room — and his eyes were at once attracted by the 


THE LAND OF 3I0CKERY. 


403 


sparkle of the diamond cross that lay uppermost on the 
cover of “ Gladys the Singer,” the book of poems which 
was in its usual place on his own reading table. In another 
second he seized it — he unwound the slight gold chain — he 
opened the little volume tremblingly. Yes I — there was a 
letter within its pages addressed to himself, — now, now he 
should know all ! He tore it open with feverish haste — two 
folded sheets of paper fell out, — one was his own epistle to 
Violet Vere, and this, to his consternation, he perceived 
first. Full of a sudden misgiving he laid it aside, and be- 
gan to read Thelma’s parting words. 

“ My darling boy,” she wrote — 

“ A friend of yours and mine brought me the enclosed 
letter and though, perhaps, it was wrong of me to read it, I 
hope you will forgive me for having done so. I do not quite 
understand it, and I cannot bear to think about it — but it 
seems that you are tired of your poor Thelma I I do not 
blame you, dearest, for I am sure that in some wa3^or other 
the fault is mine, and it does grieve me so much to think 
you are unhappy 1 I know that I am very ignorant of 
many things, and that I am not suited to this London life 
— and I fear I shall never understand its ways. But one 
thing I can do, and that is to let you be free, my Philip — 
quite free I And so I am going back to the Altenfjord, 
where I will stay till you want me again, if 3^011 ever do. 
My heart is 3^ours and I shall always love you till I die, — 
and though it seems to me just now better that we should 
part, to give you greater ease and pleasure, still you must 
always remember that I have no reproaches to make to 
you. I am only sorry to think iny loA'e has wearied 3'ou, — 
for you have been all goodness and tenderness to me. And 
so that people shall not talk about me or 3^011, 3^ou will 
simply say to them that I have gone to see my father, and 
they will think nothing strange in that. Be kind to Britta, 
— I have told her nothing, as it would 01113" make her mis- 
erable. Do not be o-ngry that I go away — I cannot bear to 
stay here, knowing all. And so, good-bye, my love, my 
dearest one ! — if you were to love many women more than 
jne, I still should love 3"ou best — I still would gladly die to 
serve you. Remember this alwa3^s, — that, however long we 
may be parted, and though all the world should come be- 
tween us, I am, and ever shall be 3"our faithful wife, 

“ Thelma.” 


404 


THELMA. 


The ejaculation that broke from Errington’s lips as he 
finished reading this letter was more powerful than rever- 
ent. Stinging tears darted to his eyes — he pressed his lips 
passionately on the fair writing. 

“ My darling — my darling ! ” he murmured. “ What a 
miserable misunderstanding 1 ” 

Then without another moment’s delay he rushed into 
Neville’s study and cried abruptly — 

“ Look here I It’s all your fault.” 

“ My fault ! ” gasped the amazed secretary. 

“ Yes — your fault ! ’’shouted Errington almost beside him- 
sjelf with grief and rage. “ Your fault, and that of your 
accursed wife., Violet Yere I ” 

And he dashed the letter, the cause of all the mischief, 
furiously down on the table. Neville shrank and shivered, 
— his grey head drooped, he stretched out his hands appeal- 
ingly. 

“ For God’s sake. Sir Philip, tell me what I’ve done ? ” 
he exclaimed piteously. 

Errington strode up and down the room in a perfect fever 
of impatience. 

“ By Heaven, it’s enough to drive me mad I ” he burst 
forth. 

“Your wifel — your wife! — confound her! When you 
first discovered her in that shameless actress, didn’t I want 
to tell Thelma all about it — that very night ? — and didn’t 
you beg me not to do so ? Your silly scruples stood in the 
way of everything ! I was a fool to listen to you — a fool to 
meddle in your affairs — and — and I wish to God I’d never 
seen or heard of you ! ” 

Neville turned very white, but remained speechless. 

“ Read that letter ! ” went on Philip impetuously. 
“ You’ve seen it before! It’s the last one I wrote to your 
wife imploring her to see you and speak with you. Here it 
(Comes, the devil knows how, into Thelma’s hands. She’s 
quite in the dark about your secret, and fancies I wrote it 
on my own behalf! It looks like it too — looks exactly as 
if I were pleading for myself and breaking my heart over 
that detestible stage-fiend — by Jove! it’s too horrible!” 
And he gave a gesture of loathing and contempt. 

Neville heard him in utter bewilderment. “ Not pos- 
sible ! ” he muttered. “ Not possible— it can’t be ! ” 

“ Can’t be ? It is! ” shouted Philip. “ And if you’d let 
me tell Thelma everything from the first, all this wouldn’t 


THE LANE OP MOCKERY. 


405 


have happened. And you ask me what you’ve done I 
Done! You’ve parted me from the sweetest, dearest girl 
ill the world ! ” 

And throwing himself into a chair, he covered his face 
with his hand and a great uncontrollable sob broke from 
his lips. 

Neville was in despair. Of course, it was his fault — he 
saw it all clearh^ He painfully recalled all that had hap- 
pened since that night at the Brilliant Theatre when with a 
sickening horror he had discovered Yiolet Vere to be no 
other than Yiolet Neville, — his own little violet 1 ... as he 
had once called her — his wife that he had lost and mourned 
as though she were some pure dead woman l^dng sweetly 
at rest in a quiet grave. He remembered Thelma’s shud- 
dering repugnance at the sight of her, — a repugnance which 
he himself had shared — and which made him shrink with 
fastidious aversion, from the idea of confiding to any one 
but Sir Philip, the miserable secret of his connection with 
her. Sir Philip had humored him in this fancy, little 
imagining that any mischief would come of it — and the 
reward of his kindly sympathy was this, — his name was 
compromised, his home desolate, and his wife enstranged 
from him ! 

In the first pangs of the remorse and sorrow that filled 
his heart, Neville could gladly have gone out and drowned 
himself. Presently he began to think, — was there not some 
one else beside himself who might possibly be to blame for 
all this misery ? For instance, who could have brought or 
sent that letter to Lady Errington? In her high station, 
she, so lofty, so pure, so far above the rest of her sex, 
would have been the last person to make any inquiries 
about such a woman as Yiolet Yere. How had it all hap- 
pened ? He looked imploringly for some minutes at the de- 
jected figure in the chair without daring to offer a word of 
consolation. Presently he ventured a remark 

“ Sir Philip I ” he stammered. “ It will soon be all right, 
— her ladyship will come back immediately. I myself will 
explain — it’s — it’s only a misunderstanding . . .” 

Errington moved in his chair impatiently, but said nothing. 
Onl}^ a misunderstanding ! How many there are who can 
trace back broken friendships and severed loves to that one 
thing — “ only a misunderstanding ! ” The tenderest re- 
lations are often the most delicate and subtle, and “ trifles 
light as air ” may scatter and utterly destroy the sensitive 


406 


THELMA. 


gossamer threads extending between one heart and another, 
as easily as a child’s passing foot destroys the spider’s web 
woven on the dew}^ grass in the early mornings of spring. 

Presently Sir Philip started up — his lashes were wet and 
his face was flushed. 

“ It’s no good sitting here,” he said, rapidly buttoning 
on his overcoat. “ I must go after her. Let all the busi- 
ness go to the devil 1 Write and say I won’t stand for 
Middleborough — I resign in favor of the Liberal candidate. 
I’m off to Norway to-night.” 

“To Norway I” cried Neville. “Has she gone there‘s 
At this season ” 

He broke off, for at that moment Britta entered, looking 
the picture of misery. Her face was pale and drawn — her 
eyelids red and swollen, and when she saw Sir Philip, she 
gave him a glance of the most despairing reproach and in- 
dignation. He sprang up to her. 

“ Any news ? ” he demanded. 

Britta shook her head mournfully, the tears beginning to 
roll again down her cheeks. 

“ Oh, if I’d only thought I ” she sobbed, “ if I’d only 
known what the dear Froken meant to do when she said good- 
bye to me last night, I could have prevented her going — 
I could — I would have told her all I know — and she would 
have stayed to see you ! Oh, Sir Philip, if you had only 
been here, that wicked, wicked Lady Winsleigh couldn't 
have driven her away I ” 

At this name such a fury filled Philip’s heart that he 
could barely control himself. He breathed quickly and 
heavily. 

“ What of her ? ” he demanded in a low, suffocated 
voice. “ What has Lady Winsleigh to do with it, Britta ? ” 

“ Everything ! ” cried Britta, though, as she glanced at 
his set, stern face and paling lips, she began to feel a little 
frightened. “ She has always hated the Froken, and been 
jealous of her — always I Her own maid, Louise, will tell 
you so — Lord Winsleigh’s man, Briggs, will tell you sol 
They’ve listened at the doors, and they know all about it I ” 
Britta made this statement with the most childlike candor. 
“ And they’ve heard all sorts of wicked things — Lady 
Winsleigh was always talking to Sir Francis Lennox about 
the Froken, — and now they’ve made her believe you do not 
care for her any more — they’ve been trying to make her 
believe everything bad of you for ever so many months 


THE LANE OF MOCKEBT, 


401 


” she paused, terrified at Sir Philip’s increasing pah 

lor. 

“ Go on, Britta,” he said quietly, though his voice 
sounded strange to himself. Britta gathered up all her re- 
maining stock of courage. 

“ Oh dear, oh dear I ” she continued desperately, “ I don't 
understand London people at all, and I never shall under- 
stand them. Everybody seems to want to be wicked I 
Briggs says that Lady Winsleigh was fond of you. Sir 
Philip, — then, that she was fond of Sir Francis Lennox, — 
and yet she has a husband of her own all the time I It is 
so very strange I ” And the little maiden’s perplexity ap- 
peared to border on distraction. “ They would think such 
a woman quite mad in Norway ! But what is worse than 
anything is that you — you. Sir Philip, — oh 1 I won't be- 
lieve it,” and she stamped her foot passionately, “ I can't 
believe it I ... . and yet everybody says that you go to 
see a dreadful, painted dancing woman at the theatre, and 
that you like her better than the Frbken, — it isn't true, is 
it ? ” Here she peered anxiously at her master — but he 
was absolutely silent. Neville made as though he would 
speak, but a gesture from Sir Philip’s hand restrained him. 
Britta went on rather dispiritedly, “ Anyhow, Briggs has 
just told me that only yesterday Lady Winsleigh went all 
by herself to see this actress, and that she got some letter 

there which she brought to the Frbken ” she recoiled 

suddenly with a little scream. “ Oh, Sir Philip 1 — where 
are you going ? ” 

Errington’s hand came down on her shoulder, as he 
twisted her lightly out of his path and strode to the door. 

“ Sir Philip — Sir Philip 1 ” cried Neville anxiously, 
hastening after him. “ Think for a moment ; don’t do. 
anything rash I ” Philip wrung his hand convulsively. 
“ Rash I My good fellow, it’s a woman who has slandered 
me — what can I do ? Her sex protects her I ” He gave a 
short, furious laugh. “ But — by God ! — were she a man 
I’d shoot her dead I ” 

And with these words, and his eyes blazing with wrath, 
he left the room. Neville and Britta confronted each other 
in vague alarm. 

“ Where will he go? ” half whispered Britta. 

“ To Winsleigh House, I suppose,” answered Neville in 
the same low tone. 


408 


TSELMA. 


Just then the hall door shut with a loud bang^ that 
echoed through the silent house. 

“He’s gone I” and as Neville said this he sighed and 
looked dubiously at his companion. “ How do you know 
all this about Lady Winsleigh, Britta? It may not be 
true — it’s only servants’ gossip.” 

“ Only servants’ gossip 1 ” exclaimed Britta. “ And is 
that nothing? Why, in these grand houses like Lord 
Winsleigh’s, the servants know everything I Briggs makes 
it his business to listen at the doors — he says it’s a part of 
his duty. And Louise opens all her mistress’s letters — she 
says she owes it to her own respectability to know what 
sort of a lady it is she serves. And she’s going to leave, 
because she sa 3 ^s her lad^^ship isnH respectable ! There I 
what do 3 ^ou think of that I And Sir Philip will find out 
a great deal more than even I have told him — but oh ! I 
can't understand about that actress I ” And she shook her 
head despairingly. 

“ Britta,” said Neville suddenly, “ That actress is my 
wife ! ” 

Britta started, — and her round eyes opened wide. 

“ Your wife, Mr. Neville? ” she exclaimed. 

Neville took off his spectacles and polished them nervously 

“ Yes, Britta — my wife I ” 

She looked at him in amazed silence. Neville went on 
rubbing his glasses, and continued in rather dreamy, trem- 
ulous accents — 

“ Yes — I lost her years ago — I thought she was dead. 
But I found her — on the stage of the Brilliant Theatre. 
I — I never expected — that ! I would rather she had died I ” 
He paused and went on softly, “ When I married her, 
Britta, she was such a dear little girl, — so bright and 
pretty ! — and I — I fancied she was fond of me I Yes, I did, 
— of course, I was foolish — I’ve always been foolish, I think. 
And when — when I saw her on that stage I felt as if some 
one had struck me a hard blow — it seems as if I’d been 
stunned ever since. And though she knows I’m in London, 
she won’t see me, Britta, — she won’t let me speak to her 
even for a moment 1 It’s very hard I Sir Philip has tried 
his best to persuade her to see me — he has talked to her 
and written to her about me ; and that’s not all, — he has 
even tried to make her come back to me — but it’s all no 
use — and — and that’s how all the mischief has arisen — do 
you see ? ” 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


40d 

Britta gazed at him still, with sympathy written on every 
line of her face, — but a great load had been lifted from her 
mind by his words — she began to understand everything. 

“ I’m so sorry for you, Mr. Neville! ” she said. “ But 
why didn’t you tell all this to the Broken ? ” 

“I couldnH ! murmured Neville desperately. “She 
was there that night at the Brilliant, — and if you had seen 
how she looked when she saw — my wife — appeared on the 
stage 1 So pained, so sorry, so ashamed 1 and she wanted 
to leave the theatre at once. Of course, I ought to have 
told her, — I wish I had — but — somehow, I never could.” 
He paused again. “ It’s all my stupidity, of course. Sir 
Philip is quite blameless — he has been the kindest, the best 

of friends to me ” his voice trembled more and more, 

and he could not go on. There was a silence of some min- 
utes, during which Britta appeared absorbed in meditation, 
and Neville furtively wiped his eyes. 

Presently he spoke again more cheerfully. “ It’ll soon be 
all right again, Britta 1 ” and he nodded encouragingly. 
“ Sir Philip says her ladyship has gone home to Norway, 
and he means to follow her to-night.” 

Britta nodded gravely, but heaved a deep sigh. 

“ And I posted her letter to her father 1 ” she half mur- 
mured. “ Oil, if I had only thought or guessed why it was 
written I ” 

“Isn’t it rather a bad time of the year for Norway ? ” 
pursued Neville. “ Why, there must be snow and dark- 
ness ” 

“ Snow and darkness at the Alten^ord 1 ” suddenly cried 
Britta, catching at his words. “ That’s exactly what she 
said to me the other evening ! Oh dear 1 I never thought 
of it — I never remembered it was the dark season 1 ” She 
clasped her hands in dismay. “ There is no sun at the 
Altenfjord now — it is like night — and the cold is bitter. 
And she is not strong — not strong enough to travel— and 
there’s the North Sea to cross — oh, Mr. Neville,” and she 
broke out sobbing afresh. “ The journey will kill her,— 
I know it will ! my poor, poor darling 1 I must go after 
her I’ll go with Sir Philip — I won't be left behind 1 ” 

“ Hush, hush, Britta 1 ” said Neville kindly, patting her 
shoulder. “ Don’t cry— don’t cry ! ” 

But he was very near crying himself, poor man, so 
shaken was he by the events of the morning. And he could 
not help admitting to himself the possibility that so long 


410 


THELMA. 


and trying a journey for Thelma in her present condition 
of health meant little else than serious illness — perhaps 
death. The only comfort he could suggest to the discon- 
solate Britta was, that at that time of year it was very 
probable there would be no steamer running to Christian 
sund or Bergen, and in that case Thelma would be unable 
to leave England, and would, therefore, be overtaken by Sir 
Philip at Hull. 

Meanwhile, Sir Philip himself, in a white heat of re- 
strained anger, arrived at Winsleigh House, and asked to 
see Lord Winsleigh immediately. Briggs, who opened the 
door to him, was a little startled at his haggard face and 
blazing eyes, even though he knew, through Britta, all about 
the sorrow that had befallen him. Briggs was not sur- 
prised at Lady Errington’s departure, — that portion of his 
“ duty ” which consisted in listening at doors, had greatly 
enlightened him on many points, — all, save one — the re- 
ported connection between Sir Philip and Violet Vere. This 
seemed to be really true according to all appearances. 

“ Which it puzzles me,” soliloquized the owner of the 
shapely calves. “ It do, indeed. Yet I feels very much 
for Sir Philip, — I said to Flopsie this morning — ‘ Flopsie, I 
feels for ’im I ’ Yes, — I used them very words. Only, of 
course, he shouldn’t ’ave gone with Yi. She’s a fine woman 
certainly — but skittish — d — d skittish I I’ve alius made it a 
rule myself to avoid ’er on principle. Lor! if I’d kep’ 
company with ’er and the likes of ’er I shouldn’t be the 
man I am 1 ” And he smiled complacently. 

Lord Winsleigh, who was in his library as usual, occu- 
pied with his duties as tutor to his son Ernest, rose to re- 
ceive Sir Philip with an air of more than his usual gravity. 

“ I was about to write to you, Errington,” he began, and 
' then stopped short, touched by the utter misery expressed 
in Philip’s face. He addressed Ernest with a sort of nerv- 
ous haste. 

“ Run away, my boy, to your own room. I’ll send for 
you again presently.” 

Ernest obeyed. “ Now,” said Lord Winsleigh, as soon 
as the lad disappeared, “ tell me everything, Errington. 
Is it true that your wife has left you ? ” 

“Left me!” and Philip’s eyes flashed with passionate 
anger. “No Winsleigh !— she’s been driven away from me 
by the vilest and most heartless cruelty. She’s been made 
to believe a scandalous and abominable lie against me — and 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


411 


she’s gone I I — I — by Jovel I hardly like to say it to 
your face — ^but ” 

“ I understand I ” a curious flicker of a smile shadowed 
rather than brightened Lord Winsleigh’s stern features. 
“ Pray speak quite plainly I Lady Winsleigh is to blame ? 
I am not at all surprised 1 ” 

Errington gave him a rapid glance of wonder. He had 
always fancied Winsleigh to be a studious, rather dull sort 
of man, absorbed in books and the education of his son, — a 
man, more than half blind to everything that went on 
around him — and, moreover, one who deliberately shut his 
eyes to the frivolous coquetry of his wife, — and though he 
liked him fairly well, there had been a sort of vague con- 
tempt mingled with his liking. Now a new light was sud- 
denly thrown on his character — there was something in his 
look, his manner, his very tone of voice, — which proved to 
Errington that there was a deep and forcible side to his na- 
ture of which his closest friends had never dreamed — and 
he was somewhat taken aback by the discovery. Seeing 
that he still hesitated, Winsleigh laid a hand encouragingly 
on his shoulder and said — 

“ I repeat — I’m not at all surprised I Nothing that Lady 
Winsleigh might do would cause me the slightest astonish- 
ment. She has long ceased to be my wife, except in name, 
— that she still bears that name and holds the position she 
has in the world is simply — for my son’s sake I I do not 
wish,” — his voice quivered slightly — “ I do not wish the 
boy to despise his mother. It’s always a bad beginning for 
a young man’s life. I want to avoid it for Ernest, if pos- 
sible, — regardless of any personal sacrifice.” He paused a 
moment — then resumed. “ Now, speak out, Errington, 
and plainly, — for if mischief has been done and I can repair 
it in any way, you may be sure I will.” 

Thus persuaded. Sir Philip briefly related the whole 
story of the misunderstanding that had arisen concerning 
Neville’s wife, Yiolet Yere. — and concluded by saying — 

“ It is, of course, only through Britta that I’ve just 
heard about Lady Winsleigh’s having anything to do with 
it. Her information may not be correct — I hope it isn’t, — 
but ” 

Lord Winsleigh interrupted him. “ Come with me,” he 
said composedly. “ We’ll resolve this difficulty at once.” 

He led the way out of the library across the hall. Er- 
rington followed him in silence. He knocked at the door 


412 


THELMA. 


of his wife’s room, — in response to her “ Come in ! ” they 
both entered. She was alone, reclining on a sofa, reading, 
— she started up with a pettish exclamation at sight of her 
husband, but observing who it was that came with him, she 
stood mute, the color rushing to her cheeks with surprise 
and something of fear. Yet she endeavored to smile, and 
returned with her usual grace their somewhat formal salu- 
tations. 

“ Clara,” then said Lord Winsleigh gravely, “ I have to 
ask you a question on behalf of Sir Philip Errington here, 
— a question to which it is necessary for you to give the 
plain answer. Did you or did you not procure this letter 
from Violet Vere, of the Brilliant Theatre — and did you or 
did you not, give it yourself yesterday into the hands of 
Lady Bruce-Errington ? ” And he laid the letter in ques- 
tion, which Philip had handed to him, down upon the table 
before her. 

She looked at it — then at him — then from him to Sir 
Philip, who uttered no word— and lightly shrugged her 
shoulders. 

“ I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said, 
carelessly. 

Sir Philip turned upon her indignantly. 

“ Lady Winsleigh, you do know ” 

She interrupted him with a stately gesture. 

“ Excuse me. Sir Philip I I am not accustomed to be 
spoken to in this extraordinary manner. You forget your- 
self— my husband, I think, also forgets himself I I know 
nothing whatever about Violet Vere — I am not fond of the 
society of actresses. Of course, I’ve heard about your ad- 
miration for her — that is common town-talk, — though my 
informant on this point was Sir Francis Lennox.” 

“ Sir Francis Lennox ! ” cried Philip furiously. “ Thank 
God I there’s a man to deal with ! By Heaven, I’ll choke 
him with his own lie I ” 

Lady Winsleigh raised her eyebrows in well-bred sur- 
prise. 

“Dear me! It is a lie, then? Now, I should have 
thought from all accounts that it was so very likely to be 
true I ” 

Philip turned white with passion. Her sarcastic smile, — 
her mocking glance,— irritated him almost beyond endurance. 

“ Permit me to ask you, Clara,” continued Lord Win- 
sleigh calmly, “ if you —as you say, know nothing about 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


413 


Violet Vere, why did you go to the Brilliant Theatre yes- 
terday morning ? ” 

She flashed an angry glance at him. 

“ Why ? To secure a box for the new performance. Is 
there anything wonderful in that ? ” 

Her husband remained unmoved. “ May I see the 
voucher for this box ? ” he inquired. 

“ I’ve sent it to some friends,” replied her ladyship 
haughtily. “ Since when have you decided to become an 
inquisitor, my lord ? ” 

“ Lady Winsleigh,” said Philip suddenly and eagerly, 
“ will you swear to me that you have said or done nothing 
to make my Thelma leave me ? ” 

“ Oh, she has left you, has she ? ” and Lady Clara smiled 
maliciously. “ I thought she would 1 Why don’t you ask 
your dear friend, George Lorimer, about her ? He is madly 
in love with her, as everybody knows, — she is probably the 
same with him I ” 

“ Clara, Clara I ” exclaimed Lord Winsleigh in accents of 
deep reproach. ‘‘ Shame on you ! Shame ! ” 

Her ladyship laughed amusedly. “ Please don’t be 
tragic 1 ” she said ; “ it’s too ridiculous I Sir Philip has 
only himself to blame. Of course, Thelma knows about his 
frequent visits to the Brilliant Theatre. I told her all that 
Sir Francis said. Why should she be kept in the dark ? 
I dare say she doesn’t mind — she’s very fond of Mr. Lor- 
imer I ” 

Errington felt as though he must choke with fury. He 
forgot the presence of Lord Winsleigh — he forgot every- 
thing but his just indignation. 

“ My God 1 ” he cried passionately. “ You dare to speak 
so I — you ! ” 

“Yes I ! ” she returned coolly, measuring him with a 
glance. “ I dare I What have you to say against me ? ” 
She drew herself up imperiously. 

Then turning to her husband, she said, “ Have the good- 
ness to take your excited friend away, my lord I I am going 
out — I have a great many engagements this morning — and 
I really cannot stop to discuss this absurd aflair any longer I 
It isn’t my fault that Sir Philip’s excessive admiration for 
Miss Vere has become the subject of gossip — I don’t blame 
him for it ! He seems extremely ill-tempered about it ; after 
all, ‘ ee lYest que la verite qui blessej ’ ” 

And she smiled maliciously. 


414 


THELMA. 


CHAPTER XXYIIL 

“ For my mother’s sake, 

For thine and hers, O Love ! I pity take 
On all poor women. Jesu’s will be done, 

Honor for all, and infamy for none, 

This side the borders of th< burning lake.” 

Eeic Mack ay’s Love Letters of a Violinist. 

Lord Winsletgh did not move. Sir Philip fixed his eyes 
fipon her in silence. Some occult fascination forced her to 
meet his glance, and the utter scorn of it stung her proud 
heart to its centre. Not that she felt miuh compunction — 
her whole soul was up in arms against him, and had been 
so from the very day she was first told of his unexpected 
marriage. His evident contempt now irritated her — she 
was angrier with him than ever, and yet — she had a sort of 
strange triumph in the petty vengeance she had designed — 
she had destroyed his happiness for a time, at least. If 
she could but shake his belief in his wife ! she thought, vin- 
dictivel}^ To that end she had thrown out her evil hint 
respecting Thelma’s affection for George Lorimer, but the 
shaft had been aimed uselessly. Errington knew too well 
the stainless purity of Thelma to wrong her by the smallest 
doubt, and he would have staked his life on the loyalty of 
his friend. Presently he controlled his anger sufficiently to 
be able to speak, and still eyeing her with that straight, 
keen look of immeasurable disdain, he said in cold, deliber- 
ate accents — 

“ Your ladyship is in error, — the actress in question is 
the wife of my secretary, Mr. Neville. For years they have 
been estranged — ^my visits to her were entirely on Neville’s 
behalf — my letters to her were all on the same subject. Sir 
Francis Lennox must have known the truth all along, — 
Violet Yere has been his mistress for the past five years 1 ” 

He uttered the concluding words with intense bitterness. 
A strange, bewildered horror passed over Lady Winsleigh’s 
face. 

“ I don’t believe it,” she said rather faintly. 

“ Believe it or not, it is true ! ” he replied curtly. “ Ask 
the manager of the Brilliant, if you doubt m^. Winsleigh, 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY, 


415 


it’s no use my stopping here any longer. As her ladyship 
refuses to give any explanation ” 

“ Wait a moment, Errington,” interposed Lord Winsleigh 
in his coldest and most methodical manner. “ Her ladyship 
refuses — but I do not refuse ! Her ladyship will not speak 
— she allows her husband to speak for her. Therefore,” 
and he smiled at his astonished wife somewhat sardonically, 
“ I may tell you at once, that her ladyship admits to 
having purchased from Violet Vere for the sum of £20, 
the letter which she afterwards took with her own hands 
to your wife.” Lady Winsleigh uttered an angry excla- 
mation. 

“ Don’t interrupt me, Clara, if you please,” he said, with 
an icy smile. “We have so many sympathies in common 
that I’m sure I shall be able to explain your unspoken 
meanings quite clearly.” He went on, addressing himself 
to Errington, who stood utterly amazed. 

“ Her ladyship desires me to assure you that her only 
excuse for her action in this matter is, that she fully be- 
lieved the reports her friend. Sir Francis Lennox, gave her 
concerning your supposed intimacy with the actress in 
question, — and that, believing it, she made use of it as 
much as possible for the purpose of destroying yonr wife’s 
peace of mind and confidence in you. Her object was most 
purely feminine — love of mischief, and the gratification of 
private spite I There’s nothing like frankness I ” and Lord 
Winsleigh’s face was a positive study as he spoke. “ You 
see,” — he made a slight gesture towards his wife, who stood 
speechless, and so pale that her very lips were colorless — 
“ her ladyship is not in a position to deny what I have said. 
Excuse her silence I ” 

And again he smiled — that smile as glitteringly chilled 
as a gleam of light on the edge of a sword. Lady Wins- 
leigh raised her head, and her eyes met his with a dark ex- 
pression of the uttermost anger. “ Spy I ” she hissed be- 
tween her teeth, — then without further word or gesture, 
she swept haughtily away into her dressing-room, which 
adjoined the boudoir, and closed the door of communication, 
thus leaving the two men alone together. 

Errington felt himself to be in a most painful and awk< 
ward position. If there was anything he more than dis- 
liked, it was a scene — particularly of a domestic nature. 
And he had just had a glimpse into Lord and Lady Wins- 
leigh’s married life, which, to him, was decidedly unpleaa- 


416 


THELMA. 


ant. He could not understand how Lord Winsleigh had 
become cognizant of all he had so frankly stated — and 
then, why had he not told him everything at first, without 
waiting to declare it in his wife’s presence ? Unless, indeed, 
he wished to shame her ? There was evidently something 
in the man’s disposition and character that he, Philip, 
could not as yet comprehend, — something that certainly 
puzzled him, and filled him with vague uneasiness. 

“ Winsleigh, I’m awfully sorry this has happened,” he 
began hurriedly, holding out his hand. 

Lord Winsleigh grasped it cordially. “ My dear fellow, 
so am 1 1 Heartily sorry I I have to be sorry for a good 
many things rather often. But I’m specially grieved to 
think that your beautiful and innocent young wife is the 
victim in this case. Unfortunately I was told nothing till 
this morning, otherwise I might possibly have prevented 
all your unhappiness. But I trust it won’t be of long 
duration. Here’s this letter,” he returned it as he spoke, 
“ which in more than one w^ay has cost so large a price. 
Possibly her ladyship may now regret her ill-gotten pur- 
chase.” 

“ Pardon me,” said Errington curiously, “ but how did 
you know ” 

“ The information was pressed upon me very much,” re- 
plied Lord Winsleigh evasively, “ and from such a source 
that up to the last moment I almost refused to believe it.” 
He paused, and then went on wdth a forced smile, “ Suppose 
we don’t talk any more about it, Errington ? The subject’s 
rather painful to me. Only allow me to ask your pardon 
for my wife’s share in the mischief I ” 

Something in his manner of speaking affected Sir Philip. 

“ Upon my soul, Winsleigh,” he exclaimed w ith sudden 
fervor, “ I fancy you’re a man greatly wu^onged I ’’ 

Lord Winsleigh smiled slightly. “You only /aTicy?” 
he said quietly. “ Well, — my good friend, we all have our 
troubles — I dare say mine are no greater than those of 
many better men.” He stopped short, then asked abruptly, 
“ I suppose you’ll see Lennox ? ” 

Errington set his teeth hard. “ I shall, — at once ! ” he 
replied. “ And I shall probably thrash him within an inch 
of his life ! ” 

“ That’s right ! I shan’t be sorry 1 ” and Lord Wins- 
leigh’s hand clenched almost unconsciously. “ I hope you 
understand, Errington, that if it hadn’t been for my son, I 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY, 


417 


should have shot that fellow long ago. I dare say you 
wonder, — and some others too, — why I haven't done it. 
But Ernest — poor little chap I .... he would have heard 
of it, — and the reason of it, — his young life is irn^olved in 
mine — why should I bequeath him a dishonored mother’s 
name ? There — for heaven’s sake, don’t let me make a fool 
of myself!” and he fiercely dashed his hand across his 
eyes. “ A duel or a divorce — or a horsewhipping — they 
all come to pretty much the same thing — all involve public 
scandal for the name of the woman who may be unhap- 
pily concerned — and scandal clings, like the stain on 
Lady Macbeth’s hand. In your case you can act — your 
wife is above a shadow of suspicion — but I — oh, my God ! 
how much women have to answer for in the miseries of this 
world 1 ” 

Errington said nothing. Pity and respect for the man 
before him held him silent. Here was one of the martyrs 
of modern social life — a man who evidently knew himself to 
be dishonored by his wife, — and who yet, for the sake of his 
son, submitted to be daily broken on the wheel of private 
torture rather than let the boy grow up to despise and slight 
his mother. Whether he were judged as wise or weak in 
his behavior there was surely something noble about him — 
something unselfish and heroic that deserved recognition. 
Presently Lord Winsleigh continued in calmer tones — 

“ I’ve been talking too much about myself, Errington, I 
fear — forgive it I Sometimes I’ve thought you misunder- 
stood me ” 

“ I never shall again ! ” declared Philip earnestly. 

Lord Winsleigh met his look of sympathy with one of 
gratitude. 

“ Thanks ! ” he said briefly, — and with this they shook 
hands again heartily, and parted. Lord Winsleigh saw his 
visitor to the door — and then at once returned to his wife’s 
apartments. She was still absent from the boudoir — he 
therefore entered her dressing-room without ceremony. 

There he found her, — alone, kneeling on the floor, her 
head buried in an arm-chair, — and her whole frame shaken 
with convulsive sobs. He looked down upon her with a 
strange wistful pain in his eyes,— pain mingled with com- 
passion. 

“ Clara ! ” he said gently. She started and sprang up- 
confronting him with flushed cheeks and wet eyes. 

‘‘ You here ? ” she exclaimed angrily. “ I wonder you 

87 . 


418 


THELMA. 


(lare to ” she broke off, confused by his keen, direct 

glance. 

‘‘ It is a matter for wonder,” he said quietly. It’s the 
strangest thing in the world that I — ^your husband — should 
venture to intrude myself into your presence! Nothing 
could be more out of the common. But I have something 
to say to you — something which must be said sooner or 
later — and I may as well speak now.” 

He paused, — she was silent, looking at him in a sort cf 
sudden fear. 

“ Sit down,” he continued in the same even tones. “ You 
must have a little patience with me — I’ll endeavor to be as 
brief as possible.” 

Mechanically she obeyed him and sank into a low fauteuil. 
She began playing with the trinkets on her silver chat- 
elaine, and endeavored to feign the most absolute unconcern, 
but her heart beat quickly — she could not imagine what 
was coming next — her husband’^ manner and tone were 
quite new to her. 

“ You accused me just now,” he went on, “ of being a 
spy. I have never condescended to act such a part toward 
you, Clara. When I first married you I trusted you with 
my life, my honor, and my name, and though you have be- 
trayed all three ” — she moved restlessly as his calm gaze 
remained fixed on her — “ I repeat, — though you have be- 
trayed all three, — I have deliberately shut my e3"es to the 
ruin of my hopes, in a loyal endeavor to shield 3^ou from 
the world’s calumny. Regarding the unhappiness 3^011 
have caused the Erringtons, — 3^0111’ own maid Louise Rcnaud 
(who has given you notice of her intention to leave you) 
told me all she knew of your share in what I may call pos- 
itive cruelty, towards a happy and innocent woman who 
has never injured you, and whose friend you declared your- 
self to be ” 

“ You believe the lies of a servant ? ” suddenl3^ cried Lady 
Winsleigh wrathfully. 

“ Have not you believed the lies of Sir Francis Lennox, 
who is leiis honest tlian a servant ? ” asked her husband, his 
grave voice deepening with a thrill of passion. “ And 
haven’t 3^011 reported them everywhere as truths? But as 
regards your maid — I doubted her story altogether. She 
assured me she knew what money you took out with you 
yesterday, and what you returned with — and as the only 
place you visited in the morning was the Brilliant Theatre, 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


419 


— after having received a telegram from Lennox, which she 
saw, — it was easy for her to put two and two together, 
especially as she noticed you reading the letter you had 
purchased — moreover ” — he paused — “ she has heard cer- 
tain conversations between you and Sir Francis, notably 
one that took place at the garden-party in the summer at Er- 
rington Manor. Spy ? you say ? your detective has been 
paid by you, — fed and kept about your own person, — to 
minister to your vanity and to flatter your pride — that she 
has turned informer against you is not surprising. Be 
thankful that her information has fallen into no more ma- 
lignant hands than mine 1 ” 

Again he paused — she was still silent — but her lips 
trembled nervously. 

“ And 3^et I was loth to believe eveiything ” — he re- 
sumed half sadly — “ till Errington came and showed me 
that letter and told me the whole story of his misery. 
Even then I thought I would give you one more chance — 
that’s why I brought him to you and asked you the ques- 
tion before him. One look at your face told me you w'ere 
guilty, though you denied it. I should have been better 
pleased had you confessed it I But why talk about it any 
longer ? — the mischief is done — I trust it is not irrepar- 
able. I certainly consider that before troubling that poor 
girl’s happiness, — you should have taken the precaution to 
inquire a little further into the truth of the reports you 
heard from Sir Francis Lennox, — he is not a reliable 
authority on any question whatsoever. You may have 

thought him so ” he stopped short and regarded her 

with sorrowful sternness — “ I sa}", Clara, you may have 
thought him so, once — but now f Are you proud to have 
shared his affections with — Violet Vere ? ” 

She uttered a sharp cry and covered her face with her 
hands, — an action which appeared to smite her husband to 
the heart, — for his voice trembled with deep feeling when 
he next spoke. 

“ Ah, best hide it, .Clara I ” he said passionately. “ Hide 
that fair face I loved so well — hide those eyes in which I 
dreamed of finding my life’s sunshine ! Clara, Clara 1 
What can I say to you, fallen rose of womanhood? How 

can I ” he suddenly bent over her as though to caress 

her, then drew back with a quick agonized sigh. “ You 
thought me blind, Clara I . . . .” he went on in low tones, 
“ blind to my own dishonor — blind to your faithlessness ; — 


420 


THELMA, 


I tell you if you bad taken ray heart between your hands 
and wrung the blood out of it drop by drop, I could not 
have suffered more than I have done 1 Why have I been 
silent so long ? — no matter why, — but now;, now Clara, — 
this life of ours must end I ” 

She shuddered away from him. 

“ End it then I ” she muttered in a choked voice. “ You 
can do as you like, — you can divorce me.” 

“ Yes,” said Lord WmsLigh musingly. “ I can divorce 
you I There will be no defense possible, — as you know. 
If witnesses are needed, they are to be had in the persons 
of our own domestics. The co-respondent in the case will 
not refute the charge against him, — and I, the plaintiff, 
must win my just cause. Do you realize it all, Clara? 
You, the well-known leader of a large social circle — you, 
the proud beauty and envied lady of rank and fashion, — 
you will be made a subject for the coarse jests of lawyers, 
— the very judge on the bench will probabl}^ play off his 
stale witticism at your expense, — 3^oi.r dearest friends will 
tear your name to shreds, — the newspapers will reek of 
your doings, — and honest housemaids reading of your fall 
from your high estate, will thank God that their souls and 
bodies are more chaste than yours I And last — not least, 
— think when old age creeps on, and your beauty withers, 
■ — think of your son grown to manhood, — the sole heir to 
my name, — think of him as having but one thing to blush 
for — the memory of his dishonored mother 1 ” 

“ Cruel — cruel ! ” she cried, endeavoring to check her 
sobs, and withdrawing her hands from her face. “ Why do 
you say such things to me ? Why did 3^011 marry me ? ” 

He caught her hands and held them in a fast grip. 

“ Why ? Because I loved 3^011, Clara — loved you with 
all the tenderness of a strong man’s heart I When I first 
saw you, you seemed to me the very incarnation of maiden 
purity and loveliness 1 The days of our courtship — the 
first few months of our marriage — what they were to you, 
I know not, — to me they were supreme happiness. When 
our boy was born, my adoration, my reverence for you in- 
creased— you were so sacred in my eyes, that I could have 

knelt and asked a benediction from these little hands ” 

here he gently loosened them from his clasp. “ Then came 
the change — what changed you, I cannot imagine — it has 
always seemed to me unnatural, monstrous, incredible! 
There was no falling away in my affection, that I can 


THE LAND OF iMOCKEBY. 


421 


swear ! My curse upon the man who turned your heart 
from mine I So rightful and deep a curse is it that I feel 
it must some day strike home.” 

He paused and seemed to reflect. Who is there more 
vile, more traitorous than he ? ” he w^ent on. “ Has he not 
tried to influence Errington’s wife against her husband ? 
For what base purpose ? But Clara, — he is powerless 
against her purity and innocence ; — what, in the name of 
God, gave him power over you ? ” 

She drooped her head, and the hot blood rushed to her 
face. 

“You’ve said enough 1” she murmured sullenly. “If 
you have decided on a divorce, pray carry out your inten- 
tion with the least possible dela 3 \ I cannot talk any more I 
I — I am tired ! ” 

“ Clara,” said her husband solemnly, with a strange light 
in his eyes, “ I would rather kill you than divorce you 1 ” 

There w'as something so terribly earnest in his tone that 
her heart beat fast with fear. 

“ Kill me ? — kill me ? ” she gasped, with white lips. 

“ Yes ! ” he repeated, “ kill you’, — as a Frenchman or an 
Italian would, — and take the consequences. Yes — though 
an Englishman, I would rather do this than drag your frail 
poor womanhood through the mire of public scandal ! I 
have, perhaps, a strange nature, but such as I am, I am. 
There are too many of our high-born families already, 
flaunting their immorality and low licentiousness in the face 
of the mocking, grinning populace, — I for one could never 
make up my mind to fling the honor of my son’s mother to 
them, as though it were a bone for dogs to fight over. No 
— I have another proposition to make to you ” 

He stopped short. She stared at him wonderingly. He 
resumed in methodical, unmoved, business-like tones. 

“ I propose, Clara, simply, — to leave you ! I’ll take the 
boy and absent myself from this country, so as to give you 
perfect freedom and save you all trouble. There’ll be no 
possibility of scandal, for I will keep you cognizant of my 
movements, — and should you require my presence at any 
time for the sake of appearances, — or— to shield you from 
calumny, — you may rely on my returning to you at once, — 
without delay. Ernest will gain many advantages by 
travel, — his education is quite a sufficient motive for my 
departure, my interest in his young life being well known 
to all our circle. Moreover, with me — under my surveil- 


422 


THELMA. 


lance — he need never know anything against — against yoU. 
I have always taught him to honor and obey you in his 
heart.” 

Lord Winsleigh paused a moment — then went on, some- 
what musingly ; — “ When he was quite little, he used to 
wonder why you didn’t love him, — it was hard for me to 
hear him say that, sometimes. But I always told him that 
3^ou did love him — but that you had so many visits to make, 
and so many friends to entertain, that you had no time to 
play with him. I don’t think he quite understood, — but 
still — I did my best 1 ” 

He was silent. She had hidden her face again in her 
hands, and he heard a sound of smothered sobbing. 

“ I think,” he continued calmly, “ that he has a great 
reverence for 3^011 in his young heart — a feeling which par- 
takes, perhaps, more of fear than love — still it is better 
than — disdain — or — or disrespect. I shall always teach 
him to esteem you highly, — but I think, as matters stand — 
if I relieve you of all 3^our responsibilities to husband and 
son — you — Clara I — pray don’t distress yourself — there’s no 
occasion for this — Clara ” 

For on a sudden impulse she had flung herself at his feet 
in an irrepressible storm of passionate weeping. 

“ Kill me, Harr}" 1 ” she sobbed wildly, clinging to him. 
“ Kill me ! don’t speak to me like this I — don’t leave me I 
Oh, my God 1 don’t, don’t despise me so utterly I Hate 
me — curse me — strike me — do an3^thing, but don’t leave me 
as if I were some low thing, unfit for your touch, — I know 
I am, but oh, Harry I . . .” She clung to him more 

closely. “ If 3^011 leave me I will not live, — I cannot ! 
Have you no pit}" ? Why would you throw me back alone 
— all, all alone, to die of 3"our contempt and my shame I ” 

And she bowed her head in an agony of tears. 

He looked down upon her a moment in silence. 

“ Your shame I ” he murmured. “ My wife ” 

Then he raised her in his arms and drew her with a 
strange hesitation of touch, to his breast, as though she 
were some sick or wounded child, and watched her as she 
lay there weeping, her face hidden, her whole frame trem- 
bling in his embrace. 

“ Poor soul ! ” he whispered, more to himself than to her. 
“ Poor frail woman 1 Hush, hush, Clara I The past is 
past 1 I’ll make you no more reproaches. I — I can't hurt 
you, because I once so loved you — but now — now, — what 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


m 


is there left for me to do, but to leave you ? You’ll be hap- 
pier so — ^you’ll have perfect liberty — you needn’t even think 
of me — unless, perhaps, as one dead and buried long ago 

She raised herself in his arms and looked at him pite* 
ously. 

“Won’t you give me a chance?” she sobbed. “Not 
one ? If I had but known you better — if I had understood 
oh, I’ve been vile, wicked, deceitful — but I’m not happy, 
Harry — I’ve never been happy since I wronged you I 
Won’t you give me one little hope that I may win youi 
love again, — no, not your love, but your pity ? Oh, Harry, 
have I lost all — all ” 

Her voice broke — she could say no more. 

He stroked her hair gently. “ You speak on impulse just 
now, Clara,” he said gravely yet tenderly. “ You can’t 
know your own strength or weakness. God forbid that I 
should judge you harshly I As you wish it, I will not 
leave you yet. I’ll wait. Whether we part or remain to- 
gether, shall be decided by your own actions, your own 
looks, your own words. You understand, Clara? You 
know my feelings. I’m content for the present to place my 
fate in your hands.” He smiled lath'^r sadly. “ But for 
love, Clara — I fear nothing can be done to warm to life this 
poor perished love of ours. We can, perhaps, take hands 
and watch its corpse patiently together and say how sorry 
we are it is dead — such penitence comes always too late I ” 

He sighed, and put her gently away from him. 

She turned up her flushed, tear-stained face to his. 

“Will you kiss me, Harry ? ” she asked tremblingly. 
He met her eyes, and an exclamation that was almost a 
groan broke from his lips. A shudder passed through his 
frame. 

“ I can’t, Clara I I can’t — God forgive me I — Not yet I ” 
And with that he bowed his head and left her. 

She listened to the echo of his firm footsteps dying away, 
and creeping guiltily to a side-door she opened it, and 
watched yearningly his retreating figure till it had disap- 
peared. 

“ Why did I never love him till now ? ” she murmured 
sobbingly. “ Now, when he despises me — when he will not 

even kiss me ? ” She leaned against the half-open door 

in an attitude of utter defection, not caring to move, listen- 
ing intently with a vague hope of hearing her husband’s 


424 


THEUIA. 


returning tread. A lighter step than his, however, came 
suddenly along from the other side of the passage and 
startled her a little — it was Ernest, looking the picture of 
boyish health and beauty. He was just going out for his 
usual ride — he lifted his cap with a pretty courtesy as he 
saw her, and said — 

“ Good-morning, mother I ” 

She looked at him with new interest, — how handsome the 
lad was I — how fresh his face I — how joyously clear those 
bright blue eyes of his ! He, on his part, was moved by a 
novel sensation too — his mother, — his proud, beautiful, 
careless mother had been crying — he saw that at a glance, 
and his young heart beat faster when she laid her white 
hand, sparkling ail over with rings, on his arm and drew 
him closer to her. 

“ Are 3^ou going to the Park ? ” she asked gently. 

“ Yes.” Then recollecting his training in politeness and 
obedience he added instantly — “ Unless you want me.” 

She smiled faintly. “ I never do want 3^ou — do I, 
Ernest ? ” she asked half sadly. “ I never want my boy 
at all.” Her voice quivered, — and Ernest grew more and 
more astonished. 

“ If 3^011 do. I’ll stay,” he said stoutly, filled with a chiv- 
alrous desire to console his so suddenly tender mother of 
his, whatever her griefs might be. Her eyes filled again, 
but she tried to laugh. 

“No dear — not now, — run along and enjoy 3’ourself. 
Come to me when 3^011 return. I shall be at home all day. 
And, — stop Ernest — won’t you kiss me ? ” 

The boy opened his e3^es wide in respectful wonderment, 
and his cheeks flushed with surprise and pleasure. 

“ Why, mother — of course ! ” And his fresh, sweet lips 
closed on hers with frank and unaffected heartiness. She 
held him fast for a moment and looked at him earnestly. 

“ Tell 3"Our father 3^ou kissed me — will you ? ” she said. ' 
“ Don’t forget ! ” 

And with that she waved her hand to him, and retreated 
again into her own apartment. The boy went on his way 
somewhat puzzled and bewildered — did his mother love him, 
after all ? If so, he thought — how glad he was ! — how very 
glad I and what a pity he had not known it before 1 


.TffE LAND OF MOCKEltr'. 




CHAPTER XXIX. 

“ I heed not custom, creed, nor law ; 

I care for nothing that ever I saw — 

I terribly laugh with an oath and sneer, 

When I think that the hour of Death draws near ! ’’ 

W. Winter. 

Errington's first idea, on leaving Winsleigh House, was 
to seek an interview with Sir Francis Lennox, and demand 
an explanation. He could not understand the man’s motive 
for such detestable treachery and falsehood. His anger rose 
to a white heat as he thought of it, and he determined to 
“ have it out ” with him whatever the consequences might 
be. “ No apology will serve his turn,” he muttered. “ The 
scoundrel 1 He has lied deliberately — and, by Jove, he shall 
pay for it ! ” 

And he started off rapidly in the direction of Piccadilly, 
but on the way he suddenly remembered that he had no 
weapon with him, not even a cane wherewith to carry out 
his intention of thrashing Sir Francis, and calling to mind 
a certain heavy horsewhip, that hung over the mantel-piece 
in his own room, he hailed a hansom, and was driven back 
to his house in order to provide himself with that imple- 
ment of castigation before proceeding further. On arriving 
at the door, to his surprise he found Lorimer who was just 
about to ring the bell. 

“ Why, I thought you were in Paris ? ” he exclaimed. 

“ I came back last night,” George began, when Morris 
opened the door, and Errington, taking his friend by the 
arm hurried him into the house. In five minutes he had 
unburdened himself of all his troubles — and had explained 
the misunderstanding about Violet Vere and Thelma’s con- 
sequent flight. Lorimer listened with a look of genuine 
pain and distress on his honest face. 

“ Phil, you have been a fool ! ” he said candidly. “ A 
positive fool, if you’ll pardon me for saying so. You ought 
to have told Thelma everything at first, — she’s the very last 
woman in the world who ought to be kept in the dark about 
an3dhing. Neville’s feelings? Bother Neville’s feelings I 
Depend upon it the poor girl has heard all manner of 


426 


theLmA. 


stories. She’s been miserable for some time — Dupr^a 
noticed it.” And he related in a few words the little scene 
that had taken place at Errington Manor on the night of 
the garden-party, when his playing on the organ had moved 
her to such unwonted emotion. 

Philip heard him in moody silence, — how had it hap- 
pened, he wondered, that others, — comparative strangers, 
— had observed that Thelma looked unhappy, while he, her 
husband, had been blind to it ? He could not make this 
out, — and yet it is a thing that very commonly happens. 
Our nearest and dearest are often those who are most in 
the dark respecting our private and personal sufferings, 
— we do not wish to trouble them, — and they prefer to 
think that everything is right with us, even though the 
rest of the world can plainly perceive that everything is 
wrong. To the last moment they will refuse to see death in 
our faces, though the veriest stranger meeting us casually, 
clearly beholds the shadow of the dark Angel’s hand. 

“ Apropos of Lennox,” went on Lorimer, sj^mpathetically 
watching his friend, “ I came on purpose to speak to you 
about him. I’ve got some news for you. He’s a regular 
sneak and scoundrel. You can thrash him to your heart’s 
content for he has grossly insulted your wife.” 

“ Insulted her ? ” cried Errington furiously. “ How, — 
what ” 

“ Give me time to speak I ” And George laid a restrain- 
ing hand on his arm. “ Thelma visited my mother yes- 
terday and told her that on the night before, when you had 
gone out, Lennox took advantage of your absence to come 
here and make love to her, — and she actually had to 
struggle with him, and even to strike him, in order to re- 
lease herself from his advances. My mother advised her 
to tell you about it — and she evidently then had no inten- 
tion of flight, for she said she would inform you of every- 
thing as soon as you returned from the country. And if 
Lady Winsleigh hadn’t interfered, it’s very probable that 

1 say, where are you going ? ” This as Philip made 

a bound for the door. 

“ To get my horsewhip ! ” he answered. 

“ All right — I approve I ” cried Lorimer. “ But wait 
one instant, and see how clear the plot becomes. Thelma’s 
beauty had maddened Lennox, — to gain her good opinion, 
as he thinks, he throws his mistress, Violet Vere, on your 
shoulders — (your ingenuous visits to the Brilliant Theatre 


LAND OF MOCKERY. 


427 


gave bim a capital pretext for this) and as for Lady Wins- 
leigh’s share in the mischief, it’s nothing but mere feminine 
spite against you for marrying at all, and hatred of the 
woman whose life is such a contrast to her own, and who 
absorbs all your affection. Lennox has used her as his tool 
and the Yere also, I’ve no doubt. The thing’s as clear as 
crystal. It’s a sort of general misunderstanding all 
round — one of those eminently unpleasant trifles that 
very frequently upset the peace and comfort of the most 
quiet and inoffensive persons. But the fault lies with yow, 
dear old boy I ” 

“ With me ! ” exclaimed Philip. 

“ Certainly I Thelma’s soul is as open as daylight — you 
shouldn’t have had any secret from her, however trifling. 
She’s not a woman ‘ on guard,’ — she can’t take life as the 
most of us do, in military fashion, with ears pricked for 
the approach of a spy, a.jd prepared to expect betrayal 
from her most familiar friends. She accepts things as they 
appear, without any suspicion of mean ulterior designs. 
It’s a pity, of course ! — it’s a pity she can’t be worldly-wise, 
and scheme and plot and plan and lie like the rest of us ! 
However, your course is plain — flrst interview Lennox and 
then follow Thelma. She can’t have left Hull yet, — there 
are scarcely any boats running to Norway at this season. 
You’ll overtake her I’m certain.” 

“ By Jove, Lorimer ! ” said Errington suddenly. “ Clara 
Winsleigh sticks at nothing — do you know she actually had 
the impudence to suggest that you^ — you, of all people, — 
were in love with Thelma I ” 

Lorimer flushed up, but laughed lightly. “ How awfully 
sweet of her ! Much obliged to her, I’m sure! And how 
did you take it Phil ? ” 

“Take it? I didn’t take it at all,” responded Philip 
warmly. “Of course, I knew it was only her spite — she’d 
say anything in one of her tempers.” 

Lorimer looked at him with a sudden tenderness in his 
blue eyes. Then he laughed again, a little forcedly, and 

said — , ttt 711 

“ Be off, old man, and get that whip of yours I We 11 

run Lennox to earth. Hullo I here’s Britta 1 ” 

The little maid entered hurriedly at that moment, — she 
came to ask with quivering lips, whether she might accom- 
pany Sir Philip in his intended journey to Norway. 

“For if you do not find the Froken at Hull, you will 


42S 


THELMA. 


want to reach the Altenflord,” said Britta, folding her 
hands resolutely in front of her apron, “ and you will not 
get on without me. You do not know what the country is 
like in the depth of winter when the sun is asleep. You 
must have the reindeer to help you — and no Englishman 
knows how to drive reindeer. And — and — ” here Britta’s 
eyes filled — “ you have not thought, perhaps, that the 
journey may make the Froken very ill — and that when we 

find her — she may be dying ” and Britta’s strength gave 

way in a big sob that broke from the depths of her honest, 
affectionate heart. 

“ Don’t — donH talk like that, Britta I ” cried Philip pas- 
sionately. “ I can’t bear it I Of course, you shall go with 
me I I wouldn’t leave you behind for the world 1 Get 

everything ready ” and in a fever of heat and impatience 

he began rumaging among some books on a side-shelf, till 
he found the time-tables he sought. “ Yes, — here we are, 
— there’s a train leaving for Hull at five — wee’ll take that. 
Tell Morris to pack my portmanteau, and you bring it 
along with you to the Midland railway -station this after- 
noon. Do you understand ? ” 

Britta nodded emphatically, and hurried off at once to 
busy herself with these preparations, wdiile Philip, all ex- 
citement, dashed off to give a few parting injunctions to 
Neville, and to get his horsewhip. 

Lorimer, left alone for a few minutes, seated himself in 
an easy chair and began absently turning over the news- 
papers on the table. But his thoughts were far away, and 
presently he covered his eyes with one hand as though the 
light hurt them. When he removed it, his lashes were wet. 

“ What a fool I am I ” he muttered impatiently. “ Oh 
Thelma, Thelma I m}^ darling ! — how I wish I could follow 
and find you and console you ! — you poor, tender, resigned 
soul, going away like this because you thought you were 
not wtlnted — not wanted! — my God! — if you only knew 
how one man at least has wanted and yearned for you ever 
since he saw your sweet face ! — Why can’t I tear you out 
of my heart — why can’t I love some one else ? AL’ Phil ! — 
good, generous, kind old Phil ! — he little guesses,” he rose 
and paced the room up and down restlessly. “ The fact is 
I oughtn’t to be here at all — I ought to leave England 
altogether for a long time — till — till I get over it. The 
question is, shall I ever get over it? Sigurd was a wise 
boy— he found a short way out of all his troubles, — suppose 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


429 

I imitate his example? No, — for a man in his senses that 
would be rather cowardly — though it might be pleasant ! ” 
He stopped in his walk with a pondering expression on his 
hice. “ At any rate, I won’t stop here to see her come 
back — I couldn’t trust myself, — I should say something 
foolish — I know I should ! I’ll take my mother to Italy — ■ 
she wants to go ; and we’ll stay with Lovelace. It’ll be a 
change — and I’ll have a good stand-up fight with myself, 
and see if I can’t come off the conqueror somehow ! It’s all 
very well to kill an opponent in battle but the question is, 
can a man kill his inner, grumbling, discontented, selfish 
Self? If he can’t, what’s the good of him ? ” 

As he was about to consider this point reflectively, 
Errington entered, equipped for travelling, and whip in 
hand. His imagination had been at work during the past 
few minutes, exaggerating all the horrors and difficulties of 
Thelma’s journey to the AltenQord, till he was in a perfect 
fever of irritable excitement. 

“ Come on Lorimer I ” he cried. “ There’s no time to 
lose ! Britta knows what to do — she’ll meet me at the 
station. I can’t breathe in this wretched house a moment 
longer — let’s be off! ” 

Plunging out into the hall, he bade Morris summon a 
hansom, — and with a few last instructions to that faithful 
servitor, and an encouraging kind word and shake of the 
hand to Neville, who with a face of remorseful misery, 
stood at the door to watch his departure, — he was gone. 
The hansom containing him and Lorimer rattled rapidly 
towards the abode of Sir Francis Lennox, but on entering 
Piccadilly, the vehicle was compelled to go so slowly on ac- 
count of the traffic, that Errington, who every moment 
grew more and more impatient, could not stand it. 

“ By Jove 1 this is like a walking funeral ! ” he muttered. 
“ I say Lorimer, let’s get out ! We can do the rest on foot.” 

They stopped the cabman and paid him his fare — then 
hurried along rapidly, Errington every now and then giving 
a fiercer clench to the formidable horsewhip which was 
twisted together with his ordinary walking-stick in such a 
manner as not to attract special attention. 

“Coward and liar!” he muttered, as he thought of the 
man he was about to punish. “ He shall pay for his 
dastardly falsehood — by Jove he shall ! It’ll be a precious 
long time before he shows himself in society any more ! ” 

Then he addressed Lorimer. “ You may depend upon it 


430 


THELMA. 


he’ll shout ‘ police I police I ’ and make for the door,” he 
observed. “ You keep your back against it, Lorimer I I 
don’t care how many fines I’ve got to pay as long as I can 
thrash him soundly I ” 

“ All right I ” Lorimer answered, and they quickened 
their pace. As they neared the chambers which Sir 
Francis Lennox rented over a fashionable jeweller’s shop, 
the}^ became aware of a smaJl procession coming straight 
towards them from the opposite direction. Something was 
being carried between four men who appeared to move with 
extreme care and gentleness, — this something was sur- 
rounded by a crowd of boys and men whose faces were full 
of morbid and frightened interest — the whole cortege was 
headed by a couple of solemn policemen. “ You spoke of a 
walking funeral just now,” said Lorimer suddenly. “ This 
looks uncommonly like one.” 

Errington made no reply — he had only one idea in his 
mind, — the determination to chastise and thoroughly dis- 
grace Sir Francis. “ I’ll hound him out of the clubs I ” he 
thought indignantly. “ His own set shall know w'hat a 
liar he is — and if 1 can help it he shall never hold up his 
head again ! ” 

Entirely occupied as he was with these reflections, he 
paid no heed to anything that was going on in the street, 
and he scarcely heard Lorimer’s last observation. So that 
he was utterly surprised and taken aback, when he, with 
Lorimer, was compelled to come to a halt before the very 
door of the jeweller, Lennox’s landlord, while the two 
policemen cleared a passage through the crowd, saying in 
low tones, “ Stand aside, gentlemen, please I — stand aside,” 
thus making gradual way for four bearers, who, as was now 
plainly to be seen, carried a common wooden stretcher 
covered with a cloth, under which lay what seemed, from 
its outline, to be a human figure. 

“ What’s the matter here ? ” asked Lorimer, with a curi- 
ous cold thrill running through him as he put the simple 
question. 

One of the policemen answered readily enough. 

“ An accident, sir. Gentleman badly hurt. Down at 
Charing Cross Station — tried to jump into a train when it 
had started, — foot caught, — was thrown under the wheels 
and dragged along some distance — doctor says he can’t live, 
sir.” 

“ Who is he, — what’s his name ? ” 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


431 


“ Lennox, sir — leastways, that’s the name on his card — 
and this is the address. Sir Francis Lennox, I believe it 
is.” 

Errington uttered a sharp exclamation of horror, — at that 
moment the jeweller came out of the recesses of his shop 
with uplifted hands and bewildered countenance. 

“An accident? Good Heavens! — Sir Francis I Up- 
stairs ! — take him up-stairs 1 ” Here he addressed the 
bearers. “ You should have gone round to the private 
entrance — he mustn’t be seen in the shop — frightening 
away all my customers — here, pass through ! — pass through, 
as quick as you can 1 ” 

And the}^ did pass through, — carrying their crushed 
burden tenderly along by the shining glass cases and 
polished counters, where glimmered and flashed jewels of 
every size and lustre for the" adorning of the children of this 
world, — slowly and carefully, step by step, they reached the 
upper floor, — and there, in a luxurious apartment furnished 
with almost feminine elegance, they lifted the inanimate 
form from the stretcher and laid it down, still shrouded, on 
a velvet sofa, removing the last number of Truth., and two 
of Zola’s novels, to make room for the heavy, unconscious 
head. 

Errington and Lorimer stood at the doorway, completely 
overcome by the suddenness of the event — they had fol- 
lowed the bearers up-stairs almost mechanically, — exchang- 
ing no word or glance by the way, — and now they watched 
in almost breathless suspense while a surgeon who was 
present, gently turned back the cover that hid the injured 
man’s features and exposed them to full view. Was that 
Sir Francis ? that blood-smeared, mangled creature ? — that 
the lascivious dandy, — the disciple of no-creed and self- 
worship ? Errington shuddered and averted his gaze from 
that hideous face, — so horribly contorted, — yet otherwise 
deathlike in its rigid stillness. There was a grave hush. 
The surgeon still bent over him — touching here, probing 
there, with tenderness and skill, — but finally he drew back 
with a hopeless shake of his head. 

“ Nothing can be done,” he whispered. “ Absolutely 
nothing 1 ” 

At that moment Sir Francis stirred, — he groaned and 
opened his e 3 "es ; — what terrible eyes they were, filled with 
that look of intense anguish, and something worse than 


432 


THELMA 


anguish, — fear — frantic fear — coward fear — fear that was 
almost more overpowering than his bodil}'^ suffering. 

He stared wildly at the little group assembled — strange 
faces, so far as he could make them out, that regarded him 
with evident compassion, — what — what was all this — what 
did it mean ? Death ? No, no I he thought madly, while 
his brain reeled with the idea — death ? What was death ? 
— darkness, annihilation, blackness — all that was horrible — 
unimaginable ! God I he would not die I God I — who was 
God? No matter — he would live; — he would struggle 
against this heaviness, — this coldness — this pillar of ice in 
which he was being slowly frozen — frozen — frozen I — inch 
by inch I He made a furious effort to move, and uttered a 
scream of agony, stabbed through and through by torturing 
pain. 

“ Keep still ! ” said the surgeon pityingly. 

Sir Francis heard him not. He wrestled with his bodily 
anguish till the perspiration stood in large drops on his 
forehead. He raised himself, gasping for breath, and 
glared about him like a trapped beast of prey. 

“ Give me brandy I ” he muttered chokingly. “ Quick — 
quick I Are you going to let me die like a dog ? — damn 
you all I ” 

The effort to move, — to speak, — exhausted his sinking 
strength — his throat rattled, — he clenched his fists and 
made as though he would spring off his couch — when a 
fearful contortion convulsed his whole body, — his eyes rolled 
up and became fixed — he fell heavily back, — dead! 

Quietly the surgeon covered again what was now noth- 
ing, — nothing but a multilated corpse. 

“ It’s all over ! ” he announce briefly. 

Erriiigton heard these words in sickened silence. All 
over I Was it possible? Sc soon? All over! — and he 
had come too late to punish the would-be ravisher of his 
wife’s honor, — too late ! He still held the whip in his hand 
with which he had meant to chastise that — that distorted, 
mangled lump of clay yonder, . . . pah I he could not 

bear to think of it, and he turned awa3^, faint and dizzy. 
He felt, — rather than saw the staircase, — down which he 
dreamily went, followed by Lorimer. 

The two policemen were in the hall scribbling the cut- 
and-dry particulars of the accident in their note-books, 
which having done, they marched off, attended by a wan- 
dering, bilious-looking penny-a-liner who was anxious to 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY, 


433 


■write a successful account of the “ Shocking Fatality,” as it 
was called in the next day’s newspapers. Then the 
bearers departed cheerfully, carrying with them the empty 
stretcher. Then the jeweller, who seemed quite unmoved 
respecting the sudden death of his lodger, chatted amicably 
witli the surgeon about the reputation and various de- 
merits of the deceased, — and Errington and Lorimer, as 
they passed through the shop, heard him speaking of a 
person hitherto unheard of, namely. Lady Francis Lennox, 
who had been deserted by her husband for the past six 
years, and who was living uncomplainingly the life of an 
art-student in Germany with her married sister, maintain- 
ing, by the work of her own hands, her one little child, a 
boy of five. 

‘‘ He never allowed her a farthing,” said the conversa- 
tional jeweller. “ And she never asked him for one. Mr. 
Wiggins, his lawyer — firm of Wiggins & Whizzer, Furni- 
val’s Inn, — told me all about his affairs. Oh yes — he was 
a regular “ masher ” — tip-top 1 Not worth much, I should 
say. He must have spent over a thousand a year in keep- 
ing up that little place at St. John’s Wood for Yiolet 
Yere. He owes me five hundred. However, Mr. Wiggins 
will see everything fair, I’ve no doubt. I’ve just wired to 
him, announcing the death. I don’t suppose any one will 
regret him — except, perhaps, the woman at St. John’s 
Wood. But I believe she’s playing for a bigger stake just 
now.” And, stimulated by this thought, he drew out from 
a handsome morocco case a superb pendant of emeralds 
and diamonds — a work of art, that glittered as he displayed 
it, like a star on a frosty night. 

“ Pretty thing, isn’t it ? ” he said proudly. “ Eight 
hundred pounds, and cheap, too! It was ordered for Miss' 
Yere, two months ago, by the Duke of Moorlands. I see 
he sold his collection of pictures the other day. Luckily 
they fetched a tidy sum, so I’m pretty sure of the money 
for this. He’ll sell everything he’s got to please her. 
Queer ? Oh, not at all ! She’s the rage just now, — I can’t 
see anything in her myself, — but I’m not a duke, you see 
— I’m obliged to be respectable I ” 

He laughed as he returned the pendant to its nest of 
padded amber satin, and Errington, — sick at heart to hear 
such frivolous converse going on while that crushed and 
lifeless form lay in the very room above, — unwatched, un- 
cared-for, — put his arm through Lorimer’s and left the shop 
28 


434 


THELMA. 


Once in the open street, with the keen, cold air blowing 
against their faces, the}^ looked at each other blankly. 
Piccadilly was crowded ; the hurrying i)eople passed and re- 
passed, — there were the shouts of omnibus conductors and 
newsboys — the laughter of young men coming out of the 
St. James’s Hall Restaurant ; all was as usual, — as, in- 
deed, why should it not ? What matters the death of one 
man in a million? unless, indeed, it be a man whose life, 
like a torch, uplifted in darkness, has enlightened and 
cheered the world, — but the death of a mere fashionable 
“ swell ” whose chief talent has been a trick of l3dng grace- 
fully — who cares for such a one ? Societ}^ is instinctively 
relieved to hear that his place is empty, and shall know 
him more. But Errington could not immediately" forget 
the scene he had witnessed. He was overcome by sensa' 
tions of horror, — even of pity, — and he walked by his 
friend’s side for some time in silence. 

“ I wish I could get rid of this thing ! ” he said suddenly, 
looking down at the horsewhip in his hand. • 

Lorimer made no answer. He understood his feeling, and 
realized the situation as sufficiently" grim. To be armed 
with a weapon meant for the chastisement of a man whom 
Death had so suddenly^ claimed was, to say the least of it, 
unpleasant. Yet the horsewhip could scarcely be thrown 
away in Piccadilly — such an action might attract notice and 
comment. Presently Philip spoke again. 

“ He was actually married all the time I ” 

“ So it seems ; ” and Lorimer’s face expressed something 
very like contempt. “ By Jove, Phil ! he must have been 
an awful scoundrel I ” 

“ Don’t let’s say any more about him — he’s dead I ” and 
'Philip quickened his steps. “ And what a horrible death I ” 

“ Horrible enough, indeed ! ” 

Again they were both silent. Mechanically they turned 
down towards Pall Mall. 

“ George,” said Errington, with a strange awe in his 
tones, “ it seems to me to-day as if there were death in the 
air. I don’t believe in presentiments, but yet — yet I can- 
not help thinking — what if I should find my Thelma — 
dead ? ” 

Lorimer turned very pale — a cold shiver ran through 
him, but he endeavored to smile. 

“ For God’s sake, old fellow, don’t think of anything so 
terrible I Look here, you’re hipped— no wonder 1 and 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


435 


you’ve got a long journey before you. Come and have 
lunch. It’s just two o’clock. Afterwards we’ll go to the 
Garrick and have a chat with Beau Lovelace — he’s a first- 
rate fellow for looking on the bright side of everything. 
Then I’ll see you off this afternoon at the Midland — what 
do you say ? ” 

Errington assented to this arrangement, and tried to 
shake off the depression that had settled upon him, though 
dark forebodings passed one after the other like clouds 
across his mind. He seemed to see the Altenguard hills 
stretching drearily, white with frozen snow, around the 
black Fjord ; he pictured Thelma, broken-hearted, fancying 
herself deserted, returning through the cold and darkness 
to the lonely farm-house behind the now withered pines. 
Then he began to think of the shell-cave where that other 
Thelma lay hidden in her last deep sleep, — the wailing 
words of Sigurd came freshly back to his ears, when the 
poor crazed lad had likened Thelma’s thoughts to his 
hrvorite flowers, the pansies — “ One by one you will gather 
and pla}^ with her thoughts as though they were these 
blossoms ; your burning hand will mar their color — they 
will wither and furl up and die, — and you — what will you 
care? Nothing I No man ever cares for a flower that is 
withered, — not even though his own hand slew it I ” 

Had he been to blame ? he mused, with a sorrowful 
weight at his heart. Unintentionally, had he, — yes, he 
would put it plainly, — had he neglected her, just a little ? 
Had he not, with all his true and passionate love for her, 
taken her beauty, her devotion, her obedience too much for 
granted — too much as his right ? And in these latter 
months, when her health had made her weaker and more in 
need of his tenderness, had he not, in a sudden desire for 
political fame and worldly honor, left her too much alone, a 
prey to solitude and the often morbid musings which soli- 
tude engenders ? 

He began to blame himself heartily for the misunder- 
standing that had arisen out of his share in Neville’s un- 
happy secret. Neville had been weak and timid, — he had 
shrunk nervously from avowing that the notorious Violet 
Vere was actually the woman he had so faithfully loved 
and mourned, — but he, Philip, ought not to have humored 
him in these fastidious scruples — he ought to have confided 
everything to Thelma. He remembered now that he had 
once or twice been uneasy lest rumors of his frequent visits 


436 


THEL3IA. 


to Miss Yere might possibly reach his wife’s ears, — but, 
then, as his purpose was absolutely disinterested and harm-^ 
less, he did not dwell on this idea, but dismissed it, and 
held his peace for Neville’s sake, contenting himself with 
the thought that, “If Thelma did hear anything, she 
would never believe a word against me.” 

He could not quite see where his fault had been, — though 
a fault there was somewhere, as he uneasily felt — and he 
would no doubt have started indignantly had a small elf 
whispered in his ear the word “ Coyiceity Yet that was 
the name of his failing — that and no other. How many 
men, otherwise noble-hearted, are seriously, though often 
unconsciously, burdened with this large parcel of blown-out 
N othing ! Sir Philip did not appear to be conceited — he 
w^ould have repelled the accusation with astonishment, — 
not knowing that in his very denial of the fault, the fault 
existed. He had never been truly humbled but twice in 
his life, — once as he knelt to receive his mother’s dying 
benediction, — and again when he first loved Thelma, and 
was uncertain whether his love could be returned by so fair 
and pure a creature. With these two exceptions, all his 
experience had tended to give him an excellent opinion of 
himself, — and that he should possess one of the best and 
loveliest wives in the world, seemed to him quite in keeping 
with the usual course of things. The feeling that it was a 
sheer impossibility for her to ever believe a word against 
him, rose out of this inward self-satisfaction — this one flaw 
in his otherwise bright, honest, and lovable character — a 
flaw of which he himself was not aware. Now, when for 
the third time his fairy castle of perfect peace and pleasure 
seemed shaken to its foundations, — when he again realized 
the uncertainity of life or death, he felt bewildered and 
wretched. His chiefest pride was centred in Thelma, and 
she — was gone 1 Again he reverted to the miserable idea 
that, like a melancholy refrain, haunted him — “ What if I 
should find her dead ! ” 

Absorbed in painful reflections, he was a very silent com- 
panion for Lorimer during the luncheon which they took at 
a quiet little restaurant well known to the habitues of Pall 
Mall and Regent Street. Lorimer himself had his own 
reasons for being equally depressed and anxious, — for did 
he not love Thelma as much as even her husband could ? — 
nay, perhaps more, knowing his love was hopeless. Not 
always does possession of the adored object strengthen 


THE LA HD OF MOCKERt. 


437 


the adoration, — the rapturous dreams of an ideal passion 
have often been known to surpass reality a thousandfold. 
So tlie two friends exchanged but few words, — though they 
tried to converse cheerfully'' on indifferent subjects, and 
failed in the attempt. They had nearly finished their light 
repast, when a familiar voice saluted them. 

“It is Errington, — I thocht I couldna be mistaken I 
How are ye both ? ” 

Sandy Macfarlane stood before them, unaltered, save that 
his scanty beard had grown somewhat longer. They had 
seen nothing of him since their trip to Norway, and they 
greeted him now with unaffected heartiness, glad of the dis- 
traction his appearance afforded them. 

“ Where do you hail from, Mac? ” asked Lorimer, as he 
made the new-comer sit down at their table. “We haven’t 
heard of you for an age.” 

“ It is a goodish bit of time,” assented Macfarlane, “ but 
better late than never. I came up to London a week ago 
from Glasgie, — and my heed has been in a whirl ever since. 
Eh, mon I but it’s an awfu' place I — maybe I'll get used to’t 
after a wee whilie.” 

“ Are you going to settle here, then ? ” inquired Erring- 
ton, “ I thought you intended to be a minister somewhere 
in Scotland ? ” 

Macfarlane smiled, and his eyes twinkled. 

“ I hae altered ma opee-nions a bit,” he said. “Ye see, 
ma aunt in Glasgie’s deed ” 

“ I understand,” laughed Lorimer. “ You’ve come in for 
the old lady’s money ? ” 

“ Puir body I ” and Sandy shook his head gravely. “ A 
few hours before she died she tore up her will in a screamin’ 
fury o’ Christian charity and forethought, — meanin’ to 
niak anither in favor o’ leavin’ a’ her warld’s trash to the 
Fund for Distributin’ Bible Knowledge among the Heathen 
— but she never had time to fulfill her intention. She went 
off like a lamb, — and there being no will, her money'' fell to 
me, as the nearest survivin’ relative — eh I the puir thing I 
— if her dees-imbodied spirit is anywhere aboot, she must 
be in a sair plight to think I’ve got it, after a’ her curses 1 ” 

“ How much ? ” asked Lorimer amused. 

“ Oh, just a fair seventy thousand or so,” answered Mac- 
farlane carelessly. 

“ Well done, Mac I ” said Errington, with a smile, endeav- 


438 


TSELMA. 


oring to appear interested. “ You’re quite rich, then f I 
congratulate you ! ” 

“ Riches are a snare,” observed Macfarlane, sententiously, 
“ a snare and a decoy to both soul and body I ” He laughed 
and rubbed his hands, — then added with some eagerness, 
“ I say, how is Lady Errington ? ” 

She’s very well,” answered Sir Philip hurriedly, ex- 
changing a quick look with Lorimer, which the latter at 
once understood. She’s away on a visit just now. I’m 
going to join her this afternoon.” 

“ I’m sorry she’s away,” said Sandy, and he looked very 
disappointed; “but I’ll see her when she comes back. 
Will she be long absent ? ” 

“No, not long — a few days only ” — and as Errington 
said this an involuntary sigh escaped him. 

A few days only ! — God grant it I But what — what if 
he should find her dead ? 

Macfarlane noticed the sadness of his expression, but 
prudently forbore to make any remark upon it. He con- 
tented himself with saying — 

“ Weel, ye’ve got a wife worth having — as I dare say ye 
know. I shall be glad to pay my respects to her as soon 
as she returns. I’ve got your address, Errington — will ye 
take mine ? ” 

And he handed him a small card on which was written 
in pencil the number of a house in one of the lowest streets 
in the East-end of London. Philip glanced at it with some 
surprise. 

“Is this where you live ? ” he asked with emphatic 
amazement. 

“ Yes. It’s just the cleanest tenement I could find in 
that neighborhood. And the woman that keeps it is fairly 
respectable.” 

“ But with your money,” remonstrated Lorimer, who 
also looked at the card, “ I rather wonder at your choice of 
abode. Why, my dear fellow, do you know what sort of a 
place it is ? ” 

A steadfast, earnest, thinking look came into Macfar- 
lane’s deep-set, grey eyes. 

“ Yes, I do know, pairfectly,” he said in answer to the 
question. “ It’s a place where there’s misery, starvation, 
and crime of all sorts, — and there I am in the very midst 
of it— just where I want to be. Ye see, I was meant to be 
a meenister— one of those douce, cannie, comfortable bodies 


THE LAND OE MOCKERY. 


439 


that drone in the pulpit about predestination and original 
sin, and so forth a — sort, of palaver that does no good to 
ony resonable creature — an’ if I had followed out this pro- 
fession, I make nae doot that, with my aunt’s seventy 
thousand, I should be a vera comfortable, respectable, sel- 
fish type of a man, who was decently embarked in an ap- 
parently important but really useless career ” 

“ Useless? ” interrupted Lorimer archly. ‘‘ I say, Mac, 
take care I A minister of the Lord, useless I ” 

“ I’m thinkin’ there are unco few meen-isters o’ the Lord 
in this warld,” said Macfarlane musingly. “ Maist o’ them 
meen-ister to themselves, an’ care na a wheen mair for 
Christ than Buddha. I tell ye, I was an altered man after 
we’d been to Norway — the auld pagan set me thinkin’ 
mony an’ mony a time — for, ma certes ! he’s better worthy 
respect than mony a so-called Christian. And as for his 
daughter — the twa great blue eyes o’ that lassie made me 
fair ashamed o’ mysel’. Why ? Because I felt that as a 
meen-ister o’ the Established Kirk, I was bound to be a 
sort o’ heep-ocrite, — ony thinkin’, reasonable man wi’ a 
conscience canna be otherwise wi’ they folk, — and ye ken, 
Errington, there’s something in your wife’s look that maks 
a body hesitate before tellin’ a lee. Weel — what wi’ her 
face an’ the auld bonders talk, I reflectit that I couldna be a 
meen-ister as meen-isters go, — an’ that I must e’en follow 
oot the Testament’s teachings according to ma own way o’ 
thinkin’. First, I fancied I’d rough it abroad as a mees- 
ionary— then I remembered the savages at hame, an’ de- 
cided to attend to them before onything else. Then my 
aunt’s siller came in handy — in short, I’m just gaun to live 
on as wee a handfu’ o’ the filthy lucre as I can, an’ lay oot 
the rest on the heathens o’ London. An’ it’s as well to do’t 
while I’m alive to see to’t mysel’ — for I’ve often observed 
that if ye leave your warld’s gear to the poor when ye’re 
deed, just for the glide reason that ye canna tak it to the 
grave wi’ ye, — it’ll melt in a wonderfu’ way through the 
hands o’ the ‘ secretaries ’ an’ ‘ distributors ’ o’ the fund, till 
there’s naething left for those ye meant to benefit. Ye 
maunna think I’m gaun to do ony preachin’ business down 
at East-end, — there’s too much o’ that an’ tract-givin’ 
already. The puir soul whose wee hoosie I’ve rented 
hadna tasted bit nor sup for three days — till I came an’ 
startled lier into a greetin’ fit by takin’ her rooms an’ payin’ 
her in advance — eh I mon, ye’d have thought I was a saint 


440 


THELMA. 


frae heaven if ye’d heard her blessin’ me, — an’ a glide curate 
had called on her just before and had given her a tract to 
dine on. Ye see, I maun mak mysel’ a friend to the folk 
first, before I can do them gude — I maun get to the heart o’ 
their troubles — an’ troubles are plentiful in that quarter, — 
I maun live among them, an’ be ane o’ them. I wad mind 
ye that Christ Himsel’ gave sympathy to begin with, — he 
did the preachin’ afterwards.” 

“ What a good fellow you are, Mac I ” said Errington, 
suddenly seeing his raw Scotch friend with the perverse 
accent, in quite a new and heroic light. 

Macfarlane actually blushed. “ Nonsense, not a bit o’t I ” 
he declared quite nervously. “It’s just pure selfishness, 
after a’ — for I’m simply enjoyin’ mysel’ the hale day long. 
Last nicht, I found a wee cripple o’ a laddie sittin’ by him- 
sel’ in the gutter, munchin a potato skin. I just took him, 
— he starin’ an’ blinkin’ like an owl at me, — and carried 
him into my room. There I gave him a plate o’ barley 
broth, an’ finished him up wi’ a hunk o’ gingerbread. Ma 
certes ! Ye should ha’ seen the rascal laugh. ’Twas better 
than lookin’ at a play from a ten-guinea box on the grand 
tier I ” 

“ By Jove, Sandy, you’re a brick I ” cried Lorimer, laugh- 
ing to hide a very different emotion — “ I had no idea you 
were that sort of chap.” 

“Nor had I,” said Macfarlane quite simply — “ I never 
fashed mj^sel’ wi’ thinkin’ o’ ither folks troubles at a’ — I 
never even took into conseederation the meanin’ o’ the 
Testament teachings till — I saw your leddy wife. Erring- 
ton.” He paused a moment, then added gravely — “ Yes — 
and I’ve aften fancied she maun be a real live angel, — an’ 
I’ve sought always to turn my hand to something useful 
and worth the doin’, — ever since I met her.” 

“ I’ll tell her so,” said poor Philip, his heart aching for 
his lost love as he spoke, though he smiled. “ It will give 
her pleasure to hear it.” 

Macfarlane blushed again like any awkward schoolboy. 

“ Oh, I dinna ken aboot that I ” he said hurriedly. “ She’s 
just a grand woman anyway.” Then, bethinking himself 
of another subject, he asked, “ Have you heard o’ the Rev- 
erend Mr. Dyceworthy lately ? ” 

Errington and Lorimer replied in the negative. 

Macfarlane laughed — his eyes twinkled. “ It’s evident 
ye never read police reports,” he said — “ Talk o’ meen- 


TBE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


141 


isters, — ^he’s a pretty specimen I He’s been bunted out o’ 
his place in Yorkshire for carryin’ on love-affairs wi’ the 
women o’ his congregation. One day he locked himsel’ in 
the vestry wi’ the new-married wife o’ one o’ his preencipal 
supporters — an’ he had a grand time of it — till the husband 
came an’ dragged him oot an’ thrashed him soundly. Then 
he left the neighborhood — an’ just th’ ither day — he turned 
up in Glasgie.” 

Macfarlane paused and laughed again. 

“ Well? ” said Lorimer, with some interest — “ Did you 
meet him there ? ” 

“ That did I — but no to speak to him — he was far too 
weel lookit after to need my services,” and Macfarlane rub- 
bed his great hands together with an irrepressible chuckle. 

“ There was a crowd o’ hootin’ laddies round him, an’ he 
was callin’ on the heavens to bear witness to his purity. 
His hat was off — an’ he had a black eye — an’ a’ his coat was 
covered wi’ mud, an’ a policeman was embracin’ him vera 
affectionately by th’ arm. He was in charge for drunken, 
disorderly, an’ indecent conduct — an’ the magistrate cam’ 
down pretty hard on him. The case proved to be excep- 
tionally outrageous — so he’s sentenced to a month’s impris' 
onment an’ hard labor. Hard labor I Eh, mon ! but that’s 
fine ! Fancy him at work — at real work for the first time 
in a’ his days ! Gude Lord ! I can see him at it ! ” 

“ So he’s come to that ! ” and Errington shrugged his 
shoulders with weary contempt. “ I thought he would. 
His career as a minister is ended, that’s one comfort ! ” 

“ Don’t be too sure o’ that ! ” said Sandy cautiously. 

“ There’s alwaj^s America, ye ken. He can mak’ a holy 
martyr o’ himsel’ there I He may gain as muckle a reputa- 
tion as Henr}" Ward Beecher — ye cann ever tell what may 
happen — ’tis a queer warld I ” 

“ Queer, indeed 1 ” assented Lorimer as they all rose and ^ 
left the restaurant together. “ If our present existence is 
the result of a fortuitous conglomeration of atoms, — I think 
the atoms ought to have been more careful what they were 
about, that’s all I can say I ” 

They reached the open street, where Macfarlane shook 
hands and went his way, promising to call on Errington as 
soon as Thelma should be again at home. 

“ He’s turned out quite a fine fellow,” said Lorimer, when 
he had gone. “ I should never have thought he had so 
much in him. He has become a philanthropist” 


442 


TBELMA. 


“ I fancy he’s better than an ordinary philanthropist/' 
replied Philip. “ Philanthropists often talk a great deal 
and do nothing.” 

“ Like members of Parliament,” suggested Lorimer, with 
a smile. 

“ Exactly so. By-the-by — I’ve resigned my candidate 
ship.” 

Resigned ? Why ? ” 

“ Oh, I’m sick of the thing ! One has to be such a hum- 
bug to secure one’s votes. I had a wretched time yester- 
day, — speechifying and trying to rouse up clodhoppers to 
the interests of their country, — and all the time my darling 
at home was alone, and breaking her heart about me 1 By 
Jove ! if I’d onl}" known I When I came back this morning 
to all this misery — I told Neville to send in my resignation. 
I repeated the same thing to him the last thing before I left 
the house.” 

“ But you might have waited a day or two,” said Lorimer 
wonderingly. “ You’re such a fellow of impulse, Phil ” 

“ Well, I can’t help it. I’m tired of politics. I began 
with a will, fancying that every member of the house had 
his country’s interests at heart, — not a bit of it I They’re 
all for themselves — most of them, at any rate — they’re not 
even sincere in their efforts to do good to the population. 
And it’s all very well to stick up for the aristocracy ; but 
wh}^, in Heaven’s name, can’t some of the wealthiest among 
them do as much as our old Mac is doing, for the outcast 
and miserable poor ? I see some real usefulness and good in 
his work, and I’ll help him in it with a will — when — when 
Thelma comes back.” 

Thus talking, the two friends reached the Garrick Club, 
where they found Beau Lovelace in the reading-room, turn- 
' ing over some new books with the curious smiling air of 
one who believes there can be nothing original under the 
sun, and that all literature is mere repetition. He greeted 
them cheerfully. 

Come out of here,” he said. “ Come into a place where 
we can talk. There’s an old fellow over there who’s ready 
to murder any member who even whispers. We won’t excite 
his angry passions. You know we’re all literature-mongers 
here, — we’ve each got our own little particular stall where 
we sort our goods — our mouldy oranges, sour apples, and 
indigestible nuts, — and we polish them up to look tempting 
to the public. It’s a great business, and we can’t bear to 


THE LANE OF MOCNEEt. 


44^ 


be looked at while we’re turning our apples with the best 
side outwards, and boiling our oranges to make them swell 
and seem big I We like to do our humbug in silence and 
alone.” 

He led the way into the smoking-room — and there heard 
with much surprise and a great deal of concern the story 
of Thelma’s flight. 

“ Ingenuous boy I ” he said kindly, clapping Philip on the 
shoulder. “ How could you be such a fool as to think that 
repeated visits to Violet Yere, no matter on what business, 
would not bring the dogs of scandal yelping about your 
heels I I wonder you didn’t see how you were compromising 
yourself I ” 

“ He never told me a word about it,” interposed Lorimer, 
“ or else I should have given him a bit of my mind on the 
subject.” 

“ Of course ! ” agreed Lovelace. And — excuse me — 
why the devil didn’t you let your secretary manage his do- 
mestic squabbles b}^ himself?” 

“ He’s very much broken down,” said Errington. “ A 
hopeless, frail, disappointed man. I thought I could serve 
him ” 

“ I see ! ” and Beau’s eyes were bent on him with a very 
friendly look. “ You’re a first-rate fellow, Errington, — but 
you shouldn’t fly off so readily on the rapid wings of im- 
pulse. Now I suppose you want to shoot Lennox — that 
can’t be done — not in England at any rate.” 

“ It can’t be done at all, anywhere,” said Lorimer 
gravely. “ He’s dead.” 

Beau Lovelace started back in amazement. “ Dead I You 
don’t say so! Why, he was dining last night at the 
Criterion — I saw him there.” 

Briefly they related the sudden accident that had oc- 
curred, and described its fatal result. 

“ He died horribly I ” said Philip in a low voice. “ I 
haven’t got over it yet. That evil, tortured face of his 
haunts me.” 

Lovelace was only slightly shocked. He had known 
Lennox’s life too well, and had depised it too thoroughly, 
to feel much regret now it was thus abruptly ended. 

“ Rather an unpleasant exit for such a fellow,” he re- 
marked. “ Not aesthetic at all. And so you were going to 
castigate him ? ” 

“ Look I” and Philip showed him the horsewhip; I’ve 


444 


mELMA. 


been carrying this thing about all day, — I wish I could 
drop it in the streets ; but if I did, some one would be sure 
to pick it up and return it to me.” 

“ If it were a purse containing bank-notes you could 
drop it with the positive certainty of never seeing it again,” 
laughed Beau. “ Here, hand it over ! ” and he possessed 
himself of it. “ I’ll keep it till you come back. You leave 
for Norway to-night, then ? ” 

“ Yes. If I can. 13ut it’s the winter season — and there’ll 
be all manner of difficulties. I’m afraid it’s no easy matter 
to reach the Altenfjord at this time of year.” 

“ Why not use your yacht, and be independent of 
obstacles ? ” suggested Lovelace. 

“ She’s under repairs, worse luck 1 ” sighed Philip de- 
spondingly. “ She won’t be in sailing condition for another 
month. No — I must take my chance — that’s all. It’s 
possible I may overtake Thelma at Hull — that’s my great 
hope.” 

“ Well, don’t be down in the mouth about it, my boy I ” 
§aid Beau sympathetically. ‘‘ It’ll all come right, depend 
upon it I Your wife’s a sweet, gentle, noble creature, — and 
when once she knows all about the miserable mistake that 
has arisen, I don’t know which will be greatest, her happi- 
ness or her penitence, for having misunderstood the posi- 
tion. Now let’s have some coffee.” 

He ordered this refreshment from a passing waiter, and 
as he did so, a gentleman, with hands clasped behind his 
back, and a suave smile on his countenance, bowed to aim 
with marked and peculiar courtesy as he sauntered on his 
way through the room. Beau returned the salute with 
equal politeness. 

“ That’s Whipper,” he explained with a smile, when the 
gentleman was out of earshot. “ The best and most gener- 
ous of men I He’s a critic — all critics are large-minded and 
and generous, we know, — but he happens to b^e remai’kably 
so. He did me the kindest turn I ever had in my life. 
When my first book came out, he fell upon it tooth and 
claw ,mangled it, tore it to ribbons, metaphorically speaking, 
— and waved the fragments mockingly in the eyes of the 
public. From that day my name was made — my writings 
sold off with delightful rapidity, and words can never tell 
how I blessed, and how 1 still bless, Whipper ! He always 
pitches into me — that’s what’s so good of him ! We’re 
awfully polite to each other, as you observe — and what is 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


445 


SO perfectly charming is that he’s quite unconscious how 
much he’s helped me along ! He’s really a first-rate fellow. 
But I haven’t yet attained the summit of my ambition,” — 
and here Lovelace broke off' with a sparkle of fun in his 
clear steel-grey e3^es. 

“ Why, what else do you want ? ” asked Lorimer laughing. 
“ I want,” returned Beau solemnly', “ I want to be jeered 
at b}^ Punch ! I want Punch to make mouths at me, and 
give me the benefit of his inimitable squeak and gibber. 
No author’s fame is quite secure till dear old Punch has 
abused him. Abuse is the thing nowada^^s, 3^011 know. 
Heaven forbid that I should be praised by Punch. That 
would be frightfully unfortunate I ” 

Here the coffee arrived, and Lovelace dispensed it to his 
friends, talking gaily the while in an effort to distract Er- 
rington from his gloomy thoughts. 

“ I’ve just been informed on respectable aiithorityj that 
Walt Whitman is the new Socrates,” he said laughingly. 
“ I felt rather stunned at the moment but I’ve got over it 
now. Oh, this deliciously mad London I what a gigantic 
Colney Hatch it is for the crazed folk of the world to air 
their follies in I That any reasonable Englishmen with such 
names as Shakespeare, B3U’on, Keats, and Shelie3’’, to keep 
the glory of their country warm, should for one moment 
consider Walt Whitman a poet! Ye gods! Where are 
your thunderbolts ! ” 

“ He’s an American, isn’t he ? ” asked Errington. 

“ He is, my dear boy I An American whom the sensible 
portion of America rejects. We, therefore, — out of oppo- 
sition, — take him up. His chief recommendation is that he 
writes blatantly concerning commonplaces, — regardless of 
music or rhythm. Here’s a bit of him concerning the 
taming of oxen. He says the tamer lives in a 

“ ‘ Placid pastoral region. 

There they bring him the three-year-olds and the four-year-olds to 
break them, — 

Some are such beautiful animals, so lofty looking, — some are buff- 
colored, some mottled, one has a white line running along his 
back, some are brindled, 

Some have wide flaring horns (a good sign !) look you ! the bright 
hides 

See the two with stars on their foreheads — see the round bodies and 
broad b.icks 

How straight and square they stand on their legs ’ ” 

“ 3 top, stop ! ” cried Lorimer, putting his hands to his 


446 


THEL3IA. 


ears. “ This is a practical joke, Beau 1 No one would call 
that jargon poetry I ” 

“ Oh I wouldn’t they though I ” exclaimed Lovelace. 
“ Let some critic of reputation once start the idea, and you’ll 
have the good London folk who won’t bother to read him 
for themselves, declaring him as fine as Shakespeare. The 
dear English muttons ! fine Southdowns ! fleecy baa-lambs I 
once let the Press-bell tinkle loudly enough across the 
fields of literature, and they’ll follow, bleating sweetly in 
any direction ! The sharpest heads in our big metropolis 
are those who know this, and who act accordingly.” 

“ Then why don’t you act accordingly ? ” asked Erring- 
ton, with a faint smile. 

“ Oh, I ? I can’t I I never asked a favor from the Press 
In my life — but its little bell has tinkled for me all the 
same, and a few of the muttons follow, but not all. Are 
you off ?” this, as they rose to take their leave. “Well, 
Errington, old fellow,” and he shook hands warmly, “a 
pleasant journey to you, and a happy return home! My 
best regards to your wufe. Lorimer, have you settled 
whether you’ll go with me to Italy ? I start the day after 
to-morrow.” 

Lorimer hesitated — then said, “ All right I My mother’s 
delighted at the idea, — yes. Beau I we’ll come. Only I hope 
we shan’t bore you.” 

“ Bore me ! you know me better than that,” and he ac- 
companied them out of the smoking-room into the hall, 
while Errington, a little surprised at this sudden arrange- 
ment, observed — 

“ Wh}^, George — I thought you’d be here when we came 
back from Norway — to — to welcome Thelma, you know 1 ” 

George laughed. “ My dear boy, I shan’t be wanted I 
Just let me know how everything goes on. You — you see 
I’m in duty bound to take my mother out of London in 
winter.” 

“ Just so I ” agreed Lovelace, who had watched him 
narrowly while he spoke. “ Don’t grudge the old lady her 
southern sunshine, Errington I Lorimer wants brushing 
up a bit too — he looks seedy. Then I shall consider it set- 
tled — the day after to-morrow, we meet at Charing Cross — 
morning tidal express, of course, — never go by night 
service across the Channel if you can help it.” 

Again they shook hands and parted. 

Best thing that young fellow can do ! ” thought Love- 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


447 


lace as he returned to the Club reading-room. “ The sooner 
he gets out of this, into new scenes the better, — he’s break- 
ing his heart over the beautiful Thelma. By Jove I the 
boy’s eyes looked like those of a shot animal whenever her 
name was mentioned. He’s rather badly hit I ” 

He sat down and began to meditate. “ What can I do 
for him, I wonder?” he thought. “Nothing, I suppose. 
A love of that sort can’t be remedied. It’s a pity — a great 
pity I And I don’t know any woman likely to make a 
counter-impression on him. He’d never put up with an 
Italian beauty ” — he paused in his reflections, and the color 
flushed his broad, handsome brow, as the dazzling vision of 
a sweet, piquant face with liquid dark eyes and Hppling 
masses of rich brown hair came flitting before him — “ unless 
he saw Angela,” he murmured to himself softly, — “ and he 
will not see her, — besides, Angela loves me! ” 

And after this, his meditations seemed to be particularly 
pleasant, to judge from the expression of his features. 
Beau was by no means ignorant of the tender passion — he 
had his own little romance, as beautiful and bright as a 
summer-day — but he had resolved that London, with its 
love of gossip, its scandal, and society papers, — London, 
that on account of his popularity as a writer, watched his 
movements and chronicled his doings in the most authori- 
tative and incorrect manner, — London should have no 
chance of penetrating into the secret of his private life. 
And so far he had succeeded — and was likely still to 
succeed. 

Meanwhile, as he still sat in blissful reverie, pretending 
to read a newspaper, though his thoughts were far away 
from it, Errington and Lorimer arrived at the Midland Sta- 
tion. Britta was already there with the luggage, — she was 
excited and pleased — her spirits had risen at the prospect 
of seeing her mistress soon again, — possibly, she thought 
gladly, they might find her at Hull, — they might not have 
td go to Norway at all. The train came up to the platform 
— the tickets were taken, — and Sir Philip, with Britta, en- 
tered a first-class compartment, while Lorimer stood out- 
side leaning with folded arms on the carriage-window, talk- 
ing cheerfully. 

“ You’ll find her all right, Phil, I’m positive ! ” he said. 
“ I think it’s very probable she has been compelled to re- 
main at Hull, — and even at the worst, Britta can guideyou 
all over Norway, if necessary. Nothing will daunt /ler,” 


448 


THELMA. 


And he nodded kindly to the little maid who had regained 
her rosy color and the sparkle of her eyes in the eagerness 
she felt to rejoin her belpved “ Frdken.” The engine-whistle 
gave a warning shriek — Philip leaned out and pressed his 
friend’s hand warmly. 

“ Good-bye, old fellow ! I’ll write to you in Italy.” 

“ All right — mind you do I And I say — give my love to 
Thelma ! ” 

Philip smiled and promised. The train began to move, — 
slowly at first, then more quickl}^ till with clattering uproar 
and puffing clouds of white steam, it rushed forth from the 
station, winding through the arches like a black snake, till 
it had twisted itself rapidly out of sight. Lorimer, left 
alone, looked after it wistfully, with a heavy w^eight of un- 
uttered love and sorrow at his heart, and as he at last 
turned awa}', those haunting words that he had heard un- 
der the pines at the Altenfjord recurred again and again to 
his memory — the words uttered by the distraught Sigurd — 
and how true they were, he thought 1 how desperately, 
cruelly true 1 

“ Good things may come for others — but for you, the 
heavens are empty I ” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

“ Honor is an old-world thing, but it smells sweet to those in 
whose bandit is strong.” — O uida. 

Disappointment upon disappointment awaited Errington 
at Hull. Unfortunately, neither he nor Britta knew of the 
existence of the good Norwegian innkeeper, Friedhof, who 
had assisted Thelma in her flight — and all their persistent 
and anxious inquiries elicited no news of her. Moreover, 
there was no boat of any kind leaving immediately for Nor- 
way — not even a whaler or fishing-smack. In a week’s 
time, — possibly later, — there would be a steamer starting 
for Christiansund, and for this, Errington, though almost 
mad with impatience, was forced to wait. And in the mean- 
time, he roamed about the streets of Hull, looking eagerly 
at every fair-haired woman who passed him, and always 
hoping that Thelma herself would suddenly meet him face 
to face, and put her hands in his. He wrote to Neville and 
told him to send on any letters that might arrive for him, 
and by every post he waited anxiously for one from Thelm^ 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


449 


but none came. To relieve his mind a little, he scribbled a 
long letter to her, explaining everything, telling her how ar- 
dently he loved and worshipped her — how he was on his way 
to join her at the Altenjford, — and ending by the most pas- 
sionate vows of unchanging love and fidelity. He was 
somewhat soothed when he had done this — though he did 
not realize the fact that in all probability he himself might 
arrive before the letter. The slow, miserable days went on 
— the week was completed — the steamer for Christian sund 
started at last, — and, after a terribly stormy passage, he 
and the faithful Britta were landed there. 

On arrival, he learned that a vessel bound for the North 
Cape had left on the previous day — there would not be an- 
other for a fortnight. Cursing his ill-luck, he resolved to 
reach the Alten^ord by land, and began to make arrange- 
ments accordingly. Those who knew the country well en- 
deavored to dissuade him from this desperate project — the 
further north, the greater danger, they told him, — moreover, 
the weather was, even for Norway, exceptionally tr^dng. 
Snow lay heavily over all the country he would have to 
traverse — the only means of conveyance was b^^ carriole or 
pulkha — the latter a sort of sledge used b}^ the Laplanders, 
made in the form of a boat, and generally drawn by rein- 
deer. The capabilities of the carriole would be exhausted 
as soon as the snow-covered regions were reached — and to 
manage a piilkha successfully, required special skill of no 
ordinary kind. But the courageous little Britta made short 
work of all these difficulties — she could drive a — 

she knew how to manage reindeer, — she entertained not the 
slightest doubt of being able to overcome all the obstacles 
on -the way. At the same time, she frankly told Sir Philip 
that the journey would 'be a long one, perhaps occupying 
several daj^s — that they would have to rest at different 
farms or stations on the road, and put up with hard fare — 
that the cold would be intense, — that often they would find 
it difficult to get relays of the required reindeer, — and that 
it might perhaps be wiser to wait for the next boat going 
to the North Cape. 

But Errmgton would hear of no more delays — each hour 
that passed filled him with fresh anxieties — and once in 
Norway he could not rest. The idea that Thelma might 

be 111 dying — or dead — gained on him with redoubled 

force, — and his fears easily communicating themselves to 
Britta, who was to the full as impatient as he, the two 
29 


450 


THELMA. 


made up their minds, and providing every necessary for the 
journey they could think of, they started for the far sunless 
North, through a white, frozen land, which grew whiter 
and more silent the further the3^ went, — even as the brood- 
ing sk}^ above them grew darker and darker. The aurora 
borealis flashed its brilliant shafts of color against the sable 
breast of heaven, — the tall pines, stripped bare, every 
branch thick with snow and dropping icicles, stood, — pale 
ghosts of the forest, — shedding frozen tears — the moon, 
more like steel than silver, shone frostily" cold, her light 
seeming to deepen rather than soften the dreariness of the 
land — and on — on — on — they went, Britta enveloped to the 
chin in furs, steadily driving the strange elfin-looking steeds 
with their horned heads casting long distorted shadows on 
the white ground, — and Philip beside her, urging her on 
with feverish impatience, while he listened to the smooth 
trot of the reindeer, — the tinkle of the bells on their har- 
ness, and the hiss of the sledge across the sparkling snow. 

Meanwhile, as he thus pursued his long and difhcult 
journey, rumor was very busy with his name in London. 
Everybody — that is, everybody worth consideration in the 
circle of the “ Upper Ten ” — was talking about him, — 
shrugging their shoulders, lifting their eyebrows and smil- 
ing knowingly, whenever he was mentioned. He became 
more known in one day than if he had served his country’s 
interests in Parliament for 3^ears. 

On the very morning after he had left the metropolis en 
route for Norwa3", that admirably conducted society jour- 
nal, the Snake., appeared, — and of course, had its usual 
amount of eager purchasers, anxious to see the latest bit 
of aristocratic scandal. Often these good folks w^ere se- 
verely disappointed — the Snake was sometimes so frightfully 
dull, that it bad actually nothing to say against anybody — 
then, naturally, it was not worth bu3dng. But this time it 
was really interesting — it knocked down — or tried to knock 
down — at one blow, a formerl3^ spotless reputation — and 
“really — really!” said the Upper Ten, “ it was dreadful, 
but of course it was to be expected I Those quiet, seem- 
ingly virtuous persons are always the worst wdien you 
come to know them, yet who would have thought it I ” 
And society read the assailing paragraph, and rolled it in 
its rank mouth, like a bon-bon, enjo3ing its flavor. It ran 
as follows : — 

“We hear on excellent authority that the Norwegian 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


451 


•beauty,’ Lady Bruce-Errington, wife of Sir Philip Bruce- 
Errington, is about to sue for a divorce on the ground of in- 
fidelity. The offending dama in the question is an admired 
actress, well-known to the frequenters of the Brilliant 
Theatre. But there are always two sides to these affairs, 
and it is rumored that the fair Norwegian (who before her 
marriage, we understand, was a great adept in the art of 
milking reindeer on the shores of her native Fjord) has 
private reasons of her own for desiring the divorce, not al- 
together in keeping with her stated reasons or her apparent 
reserve. We are, however, always on the side of the fair 
sex, and, as the faithless husband has made no secret of 
his new liaison., we do not hesitate to at once pronounce in 
the lady’s favor. The case is likely to prove interesting 
to believers in wedded happiness, combined with the strict- 
est moral and religious sentiments.” 

Quite by accident this piece of would-be “ smartness ” 
was seen by Beau Lovelace. He had a wholesome con- 
tempt for the Snak ^ — and all its class, — he would never 
have looked at it, or known of the paragraph, had not a 
friend of his at the Garrick pointed it out to him with half 
a smile and half a sneer. 

“ It’s a damned lie ! ” said Beau briefly. 

“ That remains to be proved ! ” answered his friend, and 
went away laughing. 

Beau read it over and over again, his blood firing with 
honest indignation. Thelma ! Thelma — that pure white 
lily of womanhood, — was she to have her stainless life 
blurred by the trail of such a thing as the Snake ? — and was 
Errington’s honor to be attainted in his absence, and he 
condemned without a word uttered in his defence ? 

“ Detestable blackguard I ” muttered Lovelace, reverting 
in his mind to the editor of the journal in question. 

What’s his name I wonder ? ” He searched and found it 
at the top of a column — “ Sole Editor and Proprietor, 
C. Snawley-Grubbs, to whom all checks and post-office 
orders should be made payable. The Editor cannot be re- 
sponsible for the return of rejected MSS.” 

Beau noted the name, and wrote the address of the office 
in his pocket-book, smiling curiously to himself the while. 

“ I’m almost glad Errington’s out of the way, he said 
half aloud. “ He shan’t see this thing if I can help it, 
though I dare say some particularly affectionate friend will 
send it to him, carefully marked. At any rate, he needn’t 


452 


THELMA. 


know it just yet — and as for Lorimer— shall I tell him? 
No, I won’t. I’ll have the game all to myselt—and— by 
Jove I how I nhall enjo}^ it I ” 

An hour later he stood in the office of the Snake., cour- 
teously inquiring for Mr. Snawley-Grubbs. Apparently he 
had come on horseback, for he held a riding-whip in his 
hand, — the very whip Errington had left with him the pre- 
vious day. The inky, dirty, towzle-headed boy who pre- 
sided in solitary grandeur over the Snake^s dingy premises, 
stared at him inquiringly, — visitors of his distinguished 
appearance and manner being rather uncommon. Those 
who usually had business with the great Grubbs were of a 
diiferent type altogether, — some of them discarded valets 
or footmen, who came to gain half a crown or five shillings 
by offering information as to the doings of their late mas- 
ters and mistresses, — shabby “ supers ” from the theatres, 
who had secured the last bit of scandal concerning some 
celebrated stage or professional “ beauty ” — sporting men 
and turf gamblers of the lowest class, — unsuccessful dram- 
atists and small verse writers — these, vrith now and then a 
few “ ladies ” — ladies of the bar-room, ballet, and demi- 
monde, were the sort of persons who daily sought private 
converse with Grubbs — and Beau Lovelace, with his mas- 
sive head, fine muscular figure, keen eyes, and self-assertive 
mien, was quite a novel specimen of manhood for the won- 
dering observation of the office-boy, who scrambled off his 
high chair with haste and something of respect as he said — 

“ What name, sir, please ? ” 

“ Beaufort Lovelace,” said the gentleman, with a bland 
smile. “ Here is my card. Ask Mr. Grubbs whether he 
can see me for a few minutes. If he is engaged — editors 
generally are engaged — tell him I’ll wait.” 

The boy went off in a greater hurry than ever. The 
name of Lovelace was quite familiar to him — he knew him, 
not as a distinguished novelist, but as “ ’im who makes 
such a precious lot of money.” And he was breathless 
with excitement when he reached the small editorial cham- 
ber at the top of a dark, narrow flight of stairs, wherein 
sat the autocratic Snawley, smiling suavely over a heap of 
letters and disordered MSS. He glanced at the card which 
his ink-smeared attendant presented him. 

“ Ah, indeed I ” he said condescendingly. “ Lovelace — - 
Lovelace ? Oh yes — I suppose it must be the novelist of 
that name — yes ! — show him up.” 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


453 


Shown up he was accordingly. He entered the room 
with a firm tread, and closed the door behind him I 

“ How do 3 '^oii do, my dear sir ! ” exclaimed Grubbs 
warnil 3 \ “ You are well known to me b}' reputation I I 
am charmed — delighted to make' the personal acquaintance 
of one who is — ^^es — let me say, who is a brother in litera- 
ture ! Sit down, I beg of you 1 ” 

And he waved his hand towards a chair, thereby’' display- 
ing the great rings that glittered on his podg}^ fingers. 

Beau, however, did not seat himself — he only smiled very 
coldl\" and contemptuously. 

“We can discuss the fraternal nature of our relationship 
afterwards,” he said satirically. “ Business first. Pra}'^, 
sir, — here he drew from his pocket the last number of the 
Snake — “ are you the writer of this paragraph ? ” 

He pointed to it, as he flattened the journal and laid it in 
front of the editor on the desk. Mr. Snawley-Grubbs 
glanced at it and smiled unconcernedly. 

“ No I am not. But I happen to know it is perfectly 
correct. I received the information on the highest — the 
ver}^ highest and most credible authority.” 

“ Indeed I ” and Beau’s lip curled haughtily, while his 
hand clenched the riding-whip more firmlj^ “ Then allow 
me to tell you, sir, that it is iitterl}- false in ever}" particular 
— ^moreover — that it is a gross libel, — published with delib- 
erate intent to injure those whom it presumes to mention, 
— and that, whoever wrote it, — 3 "OU, sir, you alone are re- 
sponsible for a most mischievous, scandalous, and damnable 
lie!” 

Mr. Grubbs was in no wise disconcerted. Honest indig- 
nation honestly expressed, always amused him — he was 
amused now. 

“ You’re unduly excited, Mr. Lovelace,” he said with a 
little laugh. “ Permit me to remark that your language is 
rather extraordinary — quite too strong under the circum- 
stances ! However, 3 "Ou’re a privileged person — genius is 
always a little mad, or shall we sa}", — eccentric ? — I sup- 
pose you are a friend of Sir Philip Errington, and you 
naturally feel hurt — yes — yes, I quite understand ! But 
the scourge of the press— the wholesome, purifying scourge, 
cannot be withheld out of consideration for private or per- 
sonal feelings. No — no I There’s a higher duty — the duty 
we owe to the public 1 ” 


454 


THELMA. 


“ I tell you again,” repeated Lovelace firmly — “ tlie 
whole thing is a lie. Will you apologize ? ” 

Mr. Grubbs threw himself back in his chair and laughed 
aloud. 

“ Apologize ? My dear sir, you must be dreaming I 
Apologize ? Certainly not I I cannot retract the state- 
ments I have made — and I firmly believe them to be true. 
And though there is a saying, ‘ the greater the truth the 
greater the libel,’ I’m ready, sir, and, always have been 
ready, to sacrifice myself to the cause of truth. Truth, 
truth for ever I Tell the truth and shame the devil ! You 
are at liberty to inform Sir Philip Errington from me, that 
as it is my object — a laudable and praiseworthy one, too, I 
think — to show up the awful immorality now reigning in 
our upper classes, I do not regret in the least the insertion 
of the paragraph in question. If it only makes him 
ashamed of his vices, I shall have done a good deed, and 
served the interests of society at large. At the same time, 
if he wishes to bring an action for libel ” 

“You dog I” exclaimed Lovelace fiercely, approaching 
him with such a sudden rapid stride that the astonished 
editor sprang up and barricaded himself behind his own 
chair. “ You hope for that, do you? An action for libel I 
nothing would please you better! To bring your scanda- 
lous printed trash into notoriety, — to hear your name 
shouted by dirty hawkers and new'sboys — to be sentenced 
as a first-class misdemenent ; ah, no such luck for you ! I 
know the tricks of your vile trade I There are other ways 
of dealing with a vulgar bully and coward I ” 

And before the startled Grubbs could realize his posi- 
tion, Lovelace closed with him, bent him under, and struck 
the horsewhip smartly cross his back and shoulders. He 
uttered a yell of pain and fury, and strove vigorously to 
defend himself, but, owing to his obesity, his muscles were 
weak and flabby, and he was powerless against the activity 
and strength of his opponent. Lash after lash descended 
regularly and mercilessly — his cries, which gradually be- 
came like the roarings of a bull of Bashan, were unheard, 
as the office-boy below, profiting by a few idle moments, 
had run across the street to buy some chestnuts at a stall 
he particularly patronized. Beau thrashed on with increas- 
ing enjoyment— Grubbs resisted him less and less, till 
finally he slipped feebly down on the floor and grovelled 
there, gasping and groaning. Beau gave him one or two 


THE LAND OF MOCKERT. 


455 


more artistic cuts, and stood above him, with the serene, 
triumphant smile of* a successful athlete. Suddenly a loud 
peal of laughter echoed from the doorway, — a woman stood 
there, richly dressed in silk and fur, with diamonds spark- 
ling in her ears and diamonds clasping the long boa at her 
throat. It was Violet Vere. 

“ Why, Snawley ! ” she cried with cheerful familiarity. 
How are you ? All broken, and no one to pick up the 
pieces I Serve 3^ou right ! Got it at last, eh ? Don’t get 
up ! You look so comfortable I ” 

“ Bodily assault,” gasped Grubbs. “ I’ll summons — call 
the police — call,” his voice died awa^^ in inarticulate gur^ 
glings, and raising himself, he sat up on the floor in a sufl 
ficientl^" abject and ludicrous j^osture, wiping the tears of 
pain from his eyes. Beau looked at the female intruder 
and recognized her at once. He saluted her with cold 
courtesy, and turned again to Grubbs. 

“ Will you apologize ? ” 

“ No— I— I won't ! ” 

Beau made another threatening movement — Miss Vere 
interposed. 

“ Stop a bit,” she said, regarding him with her insolent 
eyes, in which lurked, however, an approving smile. “ I 
don’t know who you are, but you seem a fighting man I 
Don’t go at him again till I’ve had a word. I say, Grubbs I 
you’ve been hitting at me in your trashy paper.” 

Grubbs still sat on the floor groaning. 

“ You must eat those words,” went on the Vere calmly. 
“ Eat ’em up with sauce for dinner. The ‘admired actress 
well known at the Brilliant,’ has nothing to do with the 
Bruce-Errington man, — not she I He’s a duffer, a regular 
still* one — no go about him an^^how. And what the deuce 
do 3"ou mean by calling me an offending damao Keep 
3'oiir oaths to yourself, will you ? ” 

Beau Lovelace was amused. Grubbs turned his water- 
ing eye from one to the other in wretched perplexity. He 
made an effort to stand up and succeeded. 

“ I’ll have you arrested, sir ? ” he exclaimed shaking his 
fists at Beau, and quivering with passion, “ on a charge of 
bodily assault — shameful bodily assault, sir I ” 

“ All right I ” returned Beau coolly. “ If I were fined a 
hundred pounds for it, I should think it cheap for the lux- 
ury of thrashing such a hound ! ” 

Grubbs quaked at the determined attitude and threaten- 


456 


THELMA. 


ing eye of liis assailant, and turned for relief to Miss Vere, 
whose smile, however, was not sympathetic. 

“ You’d better cave in 1 ” she remarked airily. ‘‘ You’ve 
got the worst of it, you know I ” 

She had long been on confidential terms with the Snake 
proprietor, and she spoke to him now with the candor of an 
old friend. 

“ Dear me, what do you expect of me I ” he almost whim- 
pered. “I’m not to blame I The paragraph was inserted 
without my knowledge by my sub-editor — he’s a wa}^ just 
now, and — there 1 why ? ” he cried with sudden defiance, 
“ why don’t you ask Sir Francis Lennox about it ? He 
wrote the whole thing.” 

“ Well, he’s dead,” said Miss Yere with the utmost cool- 
ness. “ So it wouldn’t be much use asking him. He can’t 
answer, — you’ll have to answer for him.” 

“ I don’t believe it 1 ” exclaimed Mr. Grubbs. “ He can’t 
be dead I ” 

“ Oh, yes, he can, and he ^.s,” retorted Yiolet. “ And a 
good job tool He was knocked over by a train at Charing 
Cross. You’ll see it in to-day’s paper, if you take the 
trouble to look. And mind you contradict all that stufi 
about me in your next number — do you hear ? I’m going 
to America with a Duke next month, and I can’t afford to 
have my reputation injured. And I w^on’t be called a 
‘ dama ’ for any penny-a-liner living.” She paused, and 
again broke out laughing, “ Poor old Snawley I You do 
look so sore I Ta-ta I ” And she moved towards the door. 
Lovelace, alwa 3 ^s courteous, opened it for her. She raised 
her hard, bright e^’es, and smiled. 

“ Thanks 1 Hope I shall see 3 - ou again some day 1 ” 

“ You are very good I ” responded Beau gravely. 

Either his tone, which w^as one chill indifference, or some- 
thing in his look, irritated her suddenly — for a rush of hot 
color crimsoned her face, and she bit her lips vexedly as 
she descended the office-stairs. 

“ He’s one of 3 ^ 0111 ’ high-and-mighty sort,” she thought 
disdainfully, as she entered her cosy brougham and was 
driven away. “ Quite too awfully moral ! ” She pulled a 
large, elaborately cut glass scent-bottle out of the pocket of 
her cloak, and, unscrewing the gold top, applied it, not to 
her nose but her mouth. It contained neat Cognac— and 
she drank a goodly gulp of it with evident relish, sw^allow- 
ing a scented bon-bon immediately afterwards to take away 


THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 


the suspicious odor. “Yes — quite too awfully moral P 
she repeated with a grin. “ Not in my line at all I Lord I 
It’s lucky there are not many such fellows about, or what 
would become of me ? A precious poor business I should 
make of it I ’’ 

Meanwhile, Lovelace, left alone again with Mr. Grubbs, 
reiterated his demand for an apology. Grubbs made a rush 
for the door, as soon as Miss Yere had gone, with the full 
intention of summoning the police, but Beau coolly placed 
his back against it with resolute firmness, and flourished 
his whip defiantly. 

“ Come, sir, none of this nonsense I ” he said sternly. “ I 
don’t mean to leave this spot till I have satisfaction. If 
Sir Francis Lennox wrote that scandalous paragraph the 
greater rascal he, — and the more shame to you for insert- 
ing it. You, who make it your business to know all the 
dirty alleys and dark corners of life, must have known his 
character pretty thoroughly. There’s not the slightest ex- 
cuse for you. Will you apologize ? — and retract every 
word of that paragraph, in your next issue ? ” 

Grubbs, breathless with rage and fear, glared at him, but 
made no answer. 

“ If you refuse to comply,” went on Beau deliberately, 
balancing the horsewhip lightly on his hand, “ I’ll just tell 
you what the consequences will be. I’ve thrashed you 
once — and I’ll thrash you again. I have only to give the 
cue to several worthy fellows of my acquaintance, who 
don’t care how much they pay for their fun, and each of 
them in turn will thrash you. As for an action for libel, 
don’t expect it — but I swear there shan’t be a safe corner in 
London for you. If, however, you publish next week a 
full retraction of your printed lie — why, then I — shall be 
only too happy to forget that such an individual as your- 
self burdens this planet. There are the two alternatives — 
choose ! 

Grubbs hesitated, but coward fear made him quail with 
the prospect of unlimited thrashings. 

“ Very well,” he said sullenly. “ Write what you want 
I)ut in — I’ll attend to it — I don’t mind obliging Miss Yere* 
But all the same. I’ll have you arrested 1 ” 

Beau laughed. “ Do so by all means I ” he said gaily. 
“ I’ll leave my address with you I ” He wrote rapidly a 
few lines on a piece of paper to the following effect — 

We have to entirely contradict a statement we made 


458 


TBELMA. 


last week respecting a supposed forthcoming divoi‘Ce ease, 
in which Sir Philip Bruce-Errington was seriously impli- 
cated. There was no truth whatever in the statement, and 
we herewith apologize most humbly and heartily for having 
inadvertently given credence to a rumor which is now 
proved to be utterly false and without the slightest shadow 
of a foundation.” 

He handed this to Grubbs. 

“ Insert that word for word, at the head of your para- 
graphs,” he said, “ and you’ll hear no more of me, unless 
3'ou give me fresh provocation. And I advise 3'^ou to think * 
twice before you have me arrested — for I’ll defend my own 
case, and — ruin you ! I’m rather a dangerous customer to 
have much to do with I However, you’ve got my card — 
you know where to find me if you want me. Only you’d 
better send after me to-night if you do — to-morrow I may 
be absent.” 

He smiled, and drew on his gloves leisurely, eyeing mean- 
while the discomfited editor, who was furtively rubbing 
his shoulder where the lash had stung it somewhat 
severely. 

‘‘ I’m exceedingl3^ glad I’ve hurt you, Mr. Grubbs,” he 
said blandly. “ And the next time you want to call me 
your brother in literature, pray reflect on the manner in 
which my fraternal affection displa3"ed itself 1 Good morn- 
ing 1 ” 

And he took his departure with a quiet step and serene 
manner, leaving Snawley-Grubbs to his own meditations, 
which were far from agreeable. He was not ignorant of 
the influence Beau Lovelace possessed, both on the press 
and in societ3^ — he was a general favorite, — a man whose 
opinions were quoted, and whose authority was accepted 
ever3^where. If he appeared to answer a charge of assault 
against Grubbs, and defended his own case, he certainly 
would have the best of it. He might — he would have to 
pay a fine, but what did he care for that ? He would hold 
up the Snake and its proprietor to the utmost ridicule and 
opprobrium — his brilliant satire and humor would carry all 
before it — and he, Snawley-Grubbs, would be still more 
utterly routed and humiliated. Weighing all these con- 
siderations carefully in his mind, the shrinking editor de- 
cided to sit down under his horsewhipping in silence and 
resignation. 

It was not a very lofty mode of action — still, it was the 


The land of mockert. 


459 


safest. Of course Violet Yere would spread the story all 
through her particular “ set,” — it made him furious to think 
of this — yet there was no help for it. He would play the 
martyr, he thought — the martyr to the cause of truth, — 
the injured innocent entrapped by false information — he 
might possibly gain new supporters and sympathizers in 
this way if he played his cards carefully. He turned to 
the daily paper, and saw there chronicled the death of Sir 
Francis Lennox. It true, then. Weill he was not at 
all affected by it — he merely committed the dead man in 
the briefest and strongest language to the very lowest of 
those low and sulphurous regions over which Satan is sup- 
posed to have full sway. Not a soul regretted Sir Francis 
— not even the Yere, whom he had kept and surrounded 
with every luxury for five years. Only one person, a fair, 
weary faced w'oman away in Germany shed a few tears over 
the lawyer’s black-boardered letter that announced his death 
to her — and this was the deserted wife, — who had once loved 
him. Lady Winsleigh had heard the news, — she shuddered 
and turned very pale when her husband gently and almost 
pityingly told her of the sudden and unprepared end that 
had overtaken her quondam admirer — but she said nothing. 
She was presiding at the breakfast-table for the first time 
in many years — she looked somewhat sad and listless, yet 
lovelier so than in all the usual pride and assertive arrogance 
of her beauty. Lord Winsleigh read aloud the brief ac- 
count of the accident in the paper — she listened dreamily, 
— still mute. He watched her with yearning eyes. 

“ An awful death for such a man, Clara I ” he said at last 
in a low tone. 

She dared not look up — she was trembling nervously. 
How dreadful it was, she thought, to be thankful that a 
man was dead ! — to feel a relief at his being no longer in 
this world I Presently her husband spoke again more re- 
servedly. 

“ No doubt you are greatly shocked and grieved,” he 
said. “ I should not have told you so suddenly — pardon 
me I ” 

“ I am not grieved,” she murmured unsteadily. “ It 
sounds horrible to say so — but I — I am afraid I am glad! ” 

“ Clara ! ” . ^ 

She rose and came tremblingly towards him. She knelt 
at his feet, though he strove to prevent her, — she raised hex 
large, dark eyes, full of dull agony, to his. 


460 


THELMA. 


“ IVe been a wicked woman, Harr^^,” she said, with a 
strange, imploring thrill of passion in her A^oice. “ I am 
down — down in the dust before you ! Look at me — don’t 
forgive me — I won’t ask that — you can't forgive me, — but 
pity me I ” 

He took her hands and laid them round his neck, — he 
drew her gently, soothingly, — closer, closer, till he pressed 
her to his heart. 

“ Down in the dust are you ? ” he whispered brokenly. 
“ My poor wife I God forbid that I should keep you 
there 1 ” 


BOOK III. 

THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

“They have the night, who had, like us, the day — 

We, whom day binds, shall have the night as they — 

We, from the fetters of the light unbound. 

Healed of our wound of living, shall sleep sound ! ” 

Swinburne. 

Night on the AltenQord, — the long, -long, changeless 
night of winter. The sharp snow-covered crests of the 
mountains rose in white appeal against the darkness of the 
sky, — the wild north wind tore through the leafless branches 
of the pine-forests, bringing with it driving pellets of sting- 
ing hail. J oyless and songless, the whole landscape laj^ as 
though frozen into sculptured stone. The Sun slept, — and 
the Fjord, black with brooding shadows, seemed silently to 
ask" — where ? Where was the great king of Light ? — the 
glorious god of the golden hair and ruddy countenance ? — • 
the glittering warrior with the flaming shield and spear in- 
vincible ? Where had he found his rest ? By what strange 
enchantment had he fallen into so deep and long a drowsi- 
ness. The wind that had rioted across the mountains, 
rooting up great trees in its shrieking career northwards, 
grew hushed as it approached the Altentjord — there a weird 
stillness reigned, broken only by the sullen and monoto- 
nous plash of the invisible waves upon the scarcely visible 
shore. 

A few tiny, twinkling lights showed the irregular outline 
of Bosekop, and now and then one or two fishing-boats with 
sable sails and small colored lamps at mast and prow would 
flit across the inky water like dark messengers from another 
world bound on some mournful errand. Human figures, 
more shadowy than real, were to be seen occasionally mov- 
ing on the pier, and to the left of the little town, as the eye 

( 461 ) 


462 


THELMA. 


grew accustomed to the moveless gloom, a group of per. 
sons, like ghosts in a dream, could be dimly perceived, 
working busily at the mending of nets. 

Suddenly a strange, unearthly glow flashed over the som- 
bre scene, — a rosy radiance deepening to brilliant streaks 
of fire. The dark heavens were torn asunder, and through 
them streamed flaring pennons of light, — waving, trem- 
bling, dancing, luminous ribbons of red, blue, green, and a 
delicious amber, like the flowing of golden wine, — wider, 
higher, more dazzlingly lustrous, the wondrous glory shone 
aloft, rising upward from the horizon — thrusting long 
spears of lambent flame among the murk}^ retreating clouds, 
till in one magnificent coruscation of resplendent beams a 
blazing arch of gold leaped from east to west, spanning the 
visible breath of the Fjord, and casting towards the white 
peaks above, vivid sparkles and reflections of jewel-like 
brightness and color. Here was surely the Rainbow Bridge 
of Odin — the glittering pathway leading to Yalhalla ! 
Long filmy threads of emerald and azure trailed downwards 
from it, like ropes of fairy flowers, binding it to the earth — 
above it hung a fleece-like nebulous whiteness, — a canopy 
through which palpitated sudden flashes of amethyst. 
Then, as though the arch were a bent bow for the hand of 
some heavenly hunter, crimson beams darted across it in 
swift succession, like arrows shot at the dark target of the 
world. Round and round swept the varying circles of color 
— now advancing — now retreating — now turning the sullen 
waters beneath into a quivering mass of steely green — now 
beating against the snow-covered hills .till they seemed pin- 
nacles of heaped-up pearls and diamonds. The whole land- 
scape was transformed, — and the shadowy cluster of men 
and women on the shore paused in their toil, and turned 
their pale faces towards the rippling splendor, — the heavy 
fishing-nets drooping from their hands like dark webs woven 
by giant spiders. . 

“ ’Tis the first time we have seen the Arch of Death this 
year,” said one in awed accents. 

“ Ay, ay ! ” returned another, with a sigh. “ And some 
one is bound to cross it, whether he will or no. ’Tis a sure 
sign I ” 

“ Sure! ” they all agreed, in hushed voices as faint and 
far-off as the breaking of the tide against the rocks on the 
opposite coast. 

As they spoke, the fairy-like bridge in the sky parted 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


463 


asunder and vanished ! The brilliant aurora borealis faded 
by swift degrees — a few moments, and the land was again 
enveloped in gloom. 

It might have been midnight — yet by the clock it was but 
four in the afternoon. Dreary indeed M^as the Altenfjord, 
— yet the neighboring village of Talvag was even drearier. 
There, desolation reigned supreme — it was a frozen region 
of bitter, shelterless cold, where the poverty-stricken inhab- 
itants, smitten by the physical torpor and mental stupefac- 
tion engendered by the long, dark season, scarcely stirred 
out of their miserable homes, save to gather extra fuel. 
This is a time in Norway, when beyond the Arctic Circle, 
the old gods yet have sway — when in spite of their persist- 
ent, sometimes fanatical, adherence to the strictest forms of 
Christianity, the people almost unconsciously revert to the 
superstitions of their ancestors. Gathering round the blaz- 
ing pine-logs, they recount to one another in low voices the 
ancient legends of dead and gone heroes, — and listening to 
the yell of the storm-wind round their huts, they still fancy 
they hear the wild war-cries of the Valkyries rushing past 
at full gallop on their coal-black steeds, with their long hair 
floating behind them. 

On this particular afternoon the appearance of the 
“ Death-Arch,” as they called that special form of the 
aurora, had impressed the Talvig folk greatly. Some of 
them were at the doors, and, regardless of the piercing 
cold, occupied themselves in staring languidly at a reindeer 
sledge which stood outside one of the more distant huts, 
evidently waiting for some person within. The hoofs of 
the animals made no impression on the hardened snow — ■ 
now and again they gently shook the tinkling bells on their 
harness, but otherwise were very patient. The sledge was 
in charge of a youthful Laplander — a.hideous, stunted spec- 
imen of humanity, who appeared to be literally sewed up 
from head to foot in skins. 

This cortege was evidently an object of curiosity, — the 
on-lookers eyed it askance, and with a sort of fear. For 
did it not belong to the terrible bonde^ Olaf Guldmar ? — 
and would not the Laplander, — a useful boy, well known in 
Talvig, — come to some fatal harm by watching, even for a 
few minutes, the property of an acknowledged pagan ? Who 
could tell ? The very reindeer might be possessed by evil 
spirits, — they were certainly much sleeker and finer than the 
ordinary run of such animals. There was something un- 


464 


THELMA. 


canny in the very look of them I Thus the stuperfied, unrea- 
soning Talvig folk muttered, one to another, leaning drowsily 
out of their half-open doors. 

“ ’Tis a strange thing,” said one man, “ that woman as 
strong in the fear of the Lord as Lovisa Elsland should 
call for one of the wicked to visit her on her death-bed.” 

“ Strange enough ! ” answered his neighbor, blinking over 
his pipe, and knocking down some of the icicles pendent 
^ from his roof. “ But maybe it is to curse him with the un- 
dying curse of the godly.” 

“ She’s done that all her life,” said the first speaker. 

“ That’s true I She’s been a faithful servant of the Gos- 
pel. All’s right with her in the next world — she’ll die 
easily.” 

“ Was it for her the Death-Arch shone?” asked an old 
woman, suddenly thrusting her head, wrapped in a red 
woollen hood, out of a low doorway, through which the 
light of a fire sparkled from the background, sending vivid 
flashes across the snow. 

The man who had spoken last shook his head solemnly. 

“ The Death-Arch never shone for a Christian yet,” he 
said gravely. “ No ! There’s something else in the wind. 
We can’t see it — but it will come — it must cornel That 
sign never fails.” 

And presently, tired of watching the waiting sledge 
and the passive Laplander, he retreated within his house, 
shutting his door against the darkness and the bitter 
wind. His neighbors followed his example, — and, save 
for two or three red glimmers of light hjere and there, 
the little village looked as though it had been deserted 
long ago — a picture of frost-bound silence and solitude. 

Meanwhile, in Lovisa Elsland’s close and comfortless 
dwelling, stood Olaf Giildmar. Ilis strong, stately figure, 
wrapped in furs, seemed almost to fill the little place — he 
had thrown aside the thick scarf of wadmel in which he 
had been wrapped to the eyes while driving in the teeth of 
the wind, — and he now lifted his fur cap, thus displaying 
his silvery bair, ruddy features, and open, massive brow. 
At that moment a woman who was busying herself in put- 
ting fresh pine-logs on the smouldering fire, turned and re- 
garded him intently. 

“ Lord, Lord I ” she muttered — “ ’tis a man of men, — he 
rejoiceth in his strength, even as the lion,— and of what 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


465 


avail shall the curse of the wicked avail against the soul 
that is firmly established ! ” 

Giildmar heard her not — he was looking towards a low 
pallet bed, on which lay, extended at full length, an ap- 
parently insensible form. 

“ Has she been long thus ? ” he asked, in a low voice. 

“ Since last night,” replied the woman — no other than 
Mr. Dyceworthy’s former servant, Ulrika. “ She wakened 
suddenly, and bade me send for you. To-day she has not 
spoken.” 

The honde sighed somewhat impatiently. He approached 
the now blazing pine-logs, and as he drew off his thick fur 
driving-gloves, and warmed his hands at the cheerful blaze, 
Ulrika again fixed her dull eyes upon him with something 
of wonder and reluctant admiration. Presently she trimmed 
an oil-lamp, and set it, burning dimly, on the table. Then 
she went to the bed and bent over it, — after a pause of sev- 
eral minutes, she turned and made a beckoning sign with 
her finger. Giildmar advanced a little, — when a sudden 
eldritch shriek startled him back, almost curdling the blood 
in his veins. Out of the deep obscurity, like some gaunt 
spectre rising from the tomb, started a face, wrinkled, ca- 
daverous, and distorted by suffering, — a face in which the 
fierce, fevered eyes glittered with a strange and dreadful 
brilliancy — the face of Lovisa Elsland, stern, forbidding, 
and already dark with the shadows of approaching death. 
She stared vacantly at Giildmar, whose picturesque head 
was illumined by the ruddy glow of the fire — and feebly 
shaded her eyes as though she saw something that hurt 
them. Ulrika raised her on her tumbled pillow, and say- 
ing, in cold, unmoved tones — “ Speak now, for the time is 
short,” she once more beckoned the honde imperatively. 

He approached slowly. 

“ Lovisia Elsland,” he began in distinct tones, address- 
ing himself to that ghastly countenance still partly shaded 
by one hand. “ I am here — Olaf Giilmar. Dost thou know 
me?” 

At the sound of his voice, a strange spasm contorted the 
withered features of the dying woman. She bent her head 
as though to listen to some far-olf echo, and held up her 
skinny finger as though enjoining silence. 

“ Know thee 1 ” she babbled whisperingly. “ How 
should I not know the brown-haired Olaf! Olaf of the 
merry eye — Olaf, the pride of the Norse maiden?” ^he 
39 


4:66 


THELMA. 


lifted herself in a more erect attitude, and stretching out 
her lean arms, went on as though chanting a monotonous 
recitative. “ Olaf, the wanderer over wild seas, — he comes 
and goes in his ship that sails like a white bird on the 
sparkling waters — long and silent are the days of his ab- 
sence — mournful are the Fjelds and Fjords without the 
smile of Olaf — Olaf the King I ” 

She paused, and Giildmar regarded her in pitying won- 
der. Her face changed to a new expression — one of wrath 
and fear. 

“ Stay, stay ! ” she cried in penetrating accents. “ Who 
comes from the South with Olaf? The clouds drive fast 
before the wind — clouds rest on the edge of the dark 
Fjord — sails red as blood flash against the sky — who comes 
with Olaf? Fair hair ripples against his breast like stream- 
ing sunbeams ; eyes blue as the glitter of the northern 
lights, are looking upon him — lips crimson and heavy with 
kisses for Olaf — ah I ” She broke off with a cry, and beat 
the air with her hands as though to keep some threatening 
thing away from her. “ Back, back I Dead bride of Olaf, 
torment me no more — back, I say I See,” — and she pointed 
into the darkness before her — “ The pale, pale face — the 
long glittering hair twisted like a snake of gold, — she 
glides along the path across the mountains, — the child fol- 
lows ! — the child I Why not kill the child as well — why 
not ? ” 

She stopped suddenly with a wild laugh. The bonds had 
listened to her ravings with something of horror, his ruddy 
cheeks growing paler. 

“ By the gods, this is strange I ” he muttered. “ She 
seems to speak of my wife, — ^yet what can she know of 
her ? ” 

For some moments there was silence. Lovisa seemed to 
have exhausted her strength. Presently, however, she put 
aside her straggling white hairs from her forehead, and de- 
manded fiercely — 

“ Where is my grandchild { Where is Britta ? ” 

Neither Giildmar nor Ulrika made any reply. But 
Britta’s name recalled the old woman to herself, and when 
she spoke again it was quite collectedly, and in her usual 
harsh voice. She seemed to forget all that she had just 
uttered, for she turned her eyes upon the bonds ^ as though 
^he had but then perceived him. 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


467 


“ So you are come, Olaf Giildmar I ” she said. “ It is 
well, — for the hand of Death is upon me.” 

“ It is well, indeed, if I can be of service, Lovisa Els- 
land,” responded Giildmar, “ though I am but a sorry con- 
soler, holding, as I do, that death is the chief blessing, and 
in no way to be regretted at any time. Moreover, when 
the body grows too weak to support the soul, ’tis as well to 
escape from it with what speed we may.” 

“Escape — escape? Where?” asked Lovisa. “From 
the worm that dieth not ? From the devouring flame that 
is never quenched ? From the torturing thirst and heat 
and darkness of hell, who shall escape ? ” 

“ Nay, if that is all the comfort thy creed can give 
thee,” said the bonde, with a half-smile, “ ’tis but a poor 
staff to lean on I ” 

Lovisa looked at him mockingly. “ And is thine so 
strong a prop to thy pride ? ” she asked disdainfully. “ Has 
Odin so endowed thee that thou shoiildst boast of him? 
Listen to me, Olaf Giildmar — I have but little strength re- 
maining, and I must speak briefly. Thy wife ” 

“ What of her ? ” said the bonde hastily. “ Thou knew- 
est her not.” 

“ I knew her,” said Lovisa steadily, “ as the lightning 
knows the tree it withers — as the sea knows the frail boat 
it wrecks for sport on a windy day. Thou haughty Olaf I 
I knew her well even as the broken heart knows its de- 
stroyer I ” 

Giildmar looked perplexedly at IJlrika. “ Surely she 
raves again ? ” he said. Ulrika was silent. 

“ Rave ? Tell him I do not rave I ” cried Lovisa rising in 
her bed to utter her words with more strength and empha- 
sis. “ May be I have raved, but that is past I The Lord, 
who will judge and condemn my soul, bear witness that I 
speak the truth I Olaf Giildmar, rememberest thou the days 
when we were young ? ” • 

“ ’Tis long ago, Lovisa ! ” replied the bo7ide with brief 
gentleness. 

“ Long ago ? It seems but yesterday ! But yesterday I 
saw the world all radiant with hope and joy and love — love 

that to you was a mere pastime — but with 7ne ” She 

shuddered and seemed to lose herself in a maze of dreary 
recollections. “ Love ! ” she presently muttered — “ ‘ love is 
strong as death, — ^jealousy is cruel as the grave — the coals 
thereof are coals of fire which hath a most vehement flame I ' 


468 


THELMA. 


Even sol You, Olaf Giildmar, have forgotten what I re- 
member, — that once in that yesterday of youth, yon called 
me fair, — once your lips branded mine I Could I forget that 
kiss ? Think you a Norse woman, bred in a shadow of the 
constant mountains, forgets the first thrill of passion waked 
in her soul ? Light women of those lands where the sun 
ever shines on fresh follies, may count their loves by the 
score, — but with us of the North, one love s-uffices to fill a 
lifetime. And was not my life filled ? Filled to overfiowing 
with bitterness and misery! For I loved you, proud Olaf I 

— I loved you ” The honde uttered an exclamation of 

incredulous astonishment. Lovisa fixed her eyes on him 
with a dark scorn. “ Yes, I loved you, — scoffer and unbe- 
liever as you were and are ! — accursed of God and man I I 
loved you in spite of all that was said against you — nay, I 
would have forsaken my creed for yours, and condemned 
my soul to the everlasting burning for your sake I I loved 
you as she — that pale, fair, witch-like thing 3^011 wedded, 

could never love ” Her voice died away in a sort of 

despairing wail, and she paused. 

“ B3" my soul I ” said the boride^ astounded, and stroking 
his white beard in some embarrassment. “ I never knew 
of this I It is true that in the hot da3"s of 3"Outh, mischief 
is often done unwittingly. But why trouble yourself with 
these memories, Lovisa ? If it be any comfort, — believe me, 
I am sorry harm ever came to 3^ou through my thoughtless 
jesting ” 

“ It matters not I ” and Lovisa regarded him with a 
strange and awful smile. “ I have had my revenge I ” She 
stopped abruptly, — then went on — “ ’Twas a fair bride you 
chose, Olaf Giildmar — child of an alien from these shores, — 
Thelma, with the treacherous laughter and light of the 
South in her eyes and smile I And I, who had known love, 

made friends with hate ” She checked herself, and 

looked full at the honde with a fiendish joy sparkling in her 
eyes. “ She whom you wedded — she whom you loved so 
well, — how soon she died ! ’’ 

There was something so suggestive and dreadful in the 
expression of her face as she said this, that the stout heart 
•of the old honde., pulsated more quickly with a sudden 
vague distrust and dread. She gave him no time to speak, 
but laying one yellow, claw-like hand on his arm, and rais- 
ing her voice to a sort of yell, exclaimed triumphantly — 

“ Yes, yes I how soon she died ! Bravely, bravely donQ ! 


LAm of the tom shadow. 469 

And no one ever guessed the truth — no one ever knew I 
killed her I ” 

Giildmar uttered a sharp cry, and shook himself free from 
her touch. In the same instant his hand flew to the hilt of 
the hunting-knife in his girdle. 

“ Killed her I By the gods ” 

Ulrika sprang before him. “ Shame I ” she cried sternlyo 
“ She is dying I ” 

‘‘ Too slowly for me ! ” exclaimed the honde furiously. 

“ Peace — peace ! ” implored Ulrika. “ Let her speak 1 ’’ 

“ Strike, Olaf Giildmar ! ” said Lovisa, in a deep voice, 
harsh, but all untremulous — “ Strike, pagan, with whom 
the law of blood is supreme — strike to the very center of 
my heart — I do not fear you ! I killed her, I say — and 
therein I, the servant of the Lord, was justified 1 Think 
you that the Most High hath not commanded His elect to 
utterly destroy and trample underfoot their enemies-? — and 
is not vengeance mine as well as thine, accursed slave of 
Odin ? ” 

A spasm of pain here interrupted her — she struggled 
violently for breath — and Ulrika supported her. Giildmar 
stood motionless, white with restrained furj^, his eyes blaz- 
ing. Recovering by slow degrees, Lovisa once more spoke 
— her voice was weaker, and sounded a long way off. 

“ Yea, the Lord hath been on my side I ” she said, and the 
hideous blasphemy rattled in her throat as it was uttered. 
“ Listen — and hear how He delivered mine enem}'' into my 
hands. I watched her always — I followed her many and 
many a time, though she never saw me. I knew her favor- 
ite path across the mountains, — it led past a rocky chasm. 
On the edge of that chasm there was a broad, flat stone, 
and there she would sit often, reading, or watching the fish- 
ing-boats on the Fjord, and listening to the prattle of her 
child. I used to dream of that stone, and wonder if I 
could loosen it ! It was strongly imbedded in the earth — . 
but each day I went to it — each day I moved it I Little by 
little I worked — till a mere touch would have set it hurling 
downwards, — yet it looked as firm as ever.” Giildmar ut- 
tered a fierce ejaculation of anguish — he put one hand to 
his throat as though he were stifling. Lovisa, watching 
him, smiled vindictively, and continued — 

‘‘ When I had done all I could do, I lay in wait for her, 
hoping and praying — my hour came at last ! It was a 
bright sunny morning — a little bird had been twittering 


THELMA. 


m 

above the very place — as it flew away, she approached — d 
book was in her hand, — her child followed her at some little 
distance olf. Fortune favored me — a cluster of pansies 
had opened their blossoms a few inches below the stone, — 
she saw them, — and, light as a bird, sprang on it and 
reached forward to gather them — ah I ” — and the wretched 
woman clapped her hands and broke into malignant laugh- 
ter — “ I can hear her quick shriek now — the crash of the 
stones and the crackle of branches as she fell down, — down 
to her death I Presently the child came running, — it was 
too young to understand — it sat down patiently waiting 
for its mother. How I longed to kill it I but it sang to it- 
self like the bird that had flown away, and I could not I 
But she was gone — she was silent for ever — the Lord be 
praised for all His mercies! Was she smiling, Olaf Glild- 
mar, when you found her — dead V' 

A strange solemnity shadowed the bonders features. He 
turned his eyes upon her steadily. 

“ Blessing and honor be to the gods of my fathers I ” he 
said — “ I found her — living I ” 

The change that came over Lovisa’s face at these words 
was inexpressibly awful — she grew livid and her lips 
twitched convulsively. 

“ Living — living ! ” she gasped. 

“ Living 1 ” repeated Giildmar sternly. “ Yile hag I 
Your purpose was frustrated 1 Your crime destroyed her 
beauty and shortened her days — but she lived — lived for 
ten sweet, bitter years, hidden away from all eyes save 
mine, — mine that never grew tired of looking in her pa- 
tient, heavenly face ! Ten years I held her as one holds a 
jewel — and, when she died, her death was but a falling 
asleep in these fond arms ” 

Lovisa raised herself with a sharp cry, and wrung her 
hands together — 

“ Ten years — ten years I ” she moaned. “ I thought her 
dead — and she lived on, — beloved and loving all the while. 
Oh God, God, why hast thou made a mockery of Thy serv- 
ant 1 ” She rocked herself to and fro — then looked up 
with an evil smile. “ Nay, but she suffered! That was 
best. It is worse to suffer than to die. Thank God, she 
suffered ! ” 

“ Ay, she suffered!” said Giildmar fiercely, scarce able 
to restrain himself from seizing upon the miserable old 
woman and shaking the sinking life out of her— “ And had 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


471 


I but guessed who caused her sufferings, by the sword of 
Odin, I would have ” 

Ulrika laid her hand on his suddenly upraised arm. 

“ Listen I ” she whispered. A low wailing, like the cry 
of a distressed child, swept round and round the house, 
followed by a gust of wind and a clattering shower of hail- 
stones. A strange blue light leaped up from the sparkling 
log fire, and cast an unearthly glow through the room. A 
deep stillness ensued. 

Then — steady and clear and resonant— a single sound 
echoed through the air, like a long note pla3^ed on an ex- 
ceedingly sweet silver trumpet. It began softly — swelled 
to a crescendo — then died delicately away. Giildmar 
raised his head — his face was full of rapt and expectant 
gravity, — his action, too, was somewhat singular, for he 
drew the knife from his girdle and kissed the hilt solemnly, 
returning it immediately to its sheath. At the same mo- 
ment Lovisa uttered a loud cr^^, and flinging the coverings 
from her, strove to rise from her bed. Ulrika held her 
firmly, — she struggled feebly yet determinedly^ gazing the 
while with straining, eager, glassy eyes into the gloom of 
the opposite corner. 

“ Darkness — darkness I ” she muttered hoarsely, — “ and 
the white faces of dead things I There — there they lie! 
— all still, at the foot of the black chasm — their mouths 
move without sound — what — what are they saying? I 
cannot hear — a-sk them to speak louder — louder ! Ah I ” 
and she uttered a terrified scream that made the rafters 
ring. “ They move I — they stretch out their hands — cold, 
cold hands ! — they are drawing me down to them — down — 
down — to that darkness! Hold me — hold me! don’t let 
me go to them — Lord, Lord be merciful to me — let me live 

— live ” Suddenly she drew back in deadly horror, 

gesticulating with her tremulous lean hands as though it 
shut away the sight of some loathsome thing unveiled to 
her view. “ Who is it ” — she asked in an awful, shudder- 
ing whisper — “ who is it that says there is no hell ? I see 
it ! ” Still retreating backwards, backwards — the clammy 
dew of death darkening her affrighted countenance,— she 
turned her glazing eyes for the last time on Giildmar. 
Her lips twitched into a smile of dreadful mockery. 

“ May thy gods — reward thee — Olaf Giildmar — even — 

as mine — are — rewarding — me ! ” 

And with these words, her head dropped heavily on her 


TBELMA. 


m 

breast. Ulrika laid her back on her pillow, a corpse. The 
stern, cruel smile froze slowly on her dead features — 
gradually she became, as it were, a sort of ancient cenotaph, 
carved to resemble old age combined with unrepenting 
evil — the straggling white hair that rested on her wrinkled 
forehead looking merely like snow fallen on sculptured 
stone. 

“ Grood Lord, have mercy on her soul ! ” murmured 
Ulrika piously, as she closed the upward staring eyes, and 
crossed the withered hands. 

. “ Good devil, claim thine own I ” said Guldmar, with 
proudly lifted arm and quivering, disdainful lips. “ Thou 
foolish woman ! Thinkest thou thy Lord makes place for 
murderers in His heaven ? If so, ’tis well I am not bound 
there ! Only the just can tread the pathway to Valhalla, — 
’tis a better creed I ” 

Ulrika looked at his superb, erect figure and loft}^ head, 
and a strangely anxious expression fiitted across her dull 
countenance. 

“ Nay, honde^ we do not believe that the Lord accepteth 
murderers, without they repent themselves of their back- 
slidings, — but if with penitence they turn to Him even at 
the eleventh hour, haply they may be numbered among the 
elect.” 

Guldmar’s eyes flashed. “ I know not thy creed, woman, 
nor care to learn it I But, all the same, thou art deceived 
in thy vain imaginings. The Eternal Justice cannot err — 
call that justice Christ or Odin as thou wilt. I tell you, 
the soul of the innocent bird that perishes in the drifting 
snow is near and dear to its Creator — but the tainted soul 
that had yonder vile body for its tenement, w'as but a flame 
of the evil one, and accursed from the beginning, — it must 
return to him from whom it came. A heaven for such as 
she? Nay — rather the lowest circle of the furthest and 
fiercest everlasting fires — and thither do I commend her I 
Farewell ! ” 

Rapidly muffling himself up in his wraps, he strode out 
of the house. He sprang into his sledge, throwing a 
generous gratuity to the small Laplander who had taken 
charge of it, and who now ventured to inquire — 

“ Has the good Lovisa left us ? ” 

Guldmar burst into a hard laugh. Good ! By my 
soul ! The folks of Talvig take up murderers for saints 
and criminals for guides 1 ’Tis a wild world 1 Yes— she 


THE LAND OP THE LONG SHADOW, 


47S 


has gone — where all such blessed ones go — to — heaven I ” 
He shook his clenched fist in the air — then hastily gather- 
ing up the reins, prepared to start. 

The Lapp, after the manner of his race, was easily 
frightened, and cowered back, terrified at the bonders 
menacing gesture and fierce tone, — but quickly bethinking 
himself of the liberal fee he clutched in his palm, he volun- 
teered a warning to this kingly old man with the streaming 
white hair and beard, and his keen eyes that were already 
fixed on the dark sweep of the rough, uneven road winding 
towards the Altenfjord. 

“There is a storm coming, Jarl Guldmarl”he stam- 
mered. 

Giildmar turned his head. “ ^hy call me Jarl ? ” he de- 
manded half angrily. “ ’Tis a name I wear not.” 

He touched the reindeer lightlj^ with his long whip — the 
sensitive beast started and sprang forward. 

Once more the Lapp exclaimed, with increased excite- 
ment and uncouth gestures — 

“ Storm is coming ! — wide — dark, deep I See how the sky 
stoops with the hidden snow ! ” 

He pointed to the north, and there, low on the horizon, 
was a lurid red gleam like a smouldering fire, while just 
above it a greenish blackness of cloud hung heavy and 
motionless. Towards the central part of the heaven two or 
three stars shone with frosty brightness, and through a few 
fleecy ribbons of greyish mist limmered the uncertain 
promise of a faint moon. 

Giildmar smiled slightly. “ Storm coming ? ” he answered 
almost gaily. “ That is well! Storm and I are old friends, 
my lad ! Good night ! ” 

Once more he touched his horned steeds, and with a 
jingle-jangle of musical bells and a scudding, slippery hiss- 
ing across the hard snow, the sledge sped off with fairy- 
like rapidity, and in a few moments its one little guiding 
lantern disappeared in the darkness like a suddenly extin- 
guished candle. 

The Lapp stood pondering and gazing after it, whth the 
bonders money in his palm, till the cold began to penetrate 
even his thick skin-clothing and his fat little body, well 
anointed with whale-oil though it was, — and becoming 
speedily conscious of this, he scampered with extraordinary 
agility, considering the dimensions of his snow-shoes, into 
the hut where he had his dwelling, relating to all who 


474 


THELMA. 


choose to hear, the news of okl Lovisa Elsland’s death, and 
the account of his brief interview with the dreaded but 
generous pagan. 

Ulrika, watching by the corpse of her aged friend, was 
soon joined by others bent on sharing her vigil, and the 
house was presently filled with woman’s religious wailings 
and prayers for the departed. To all the curious inquiries 
that were made concerning the cause of Lovisa’s desire to 
see the honde before she died, Ulrika vouchsafed no reply, 
— and the villagers, who stood somewhat in awe of her as 
a woman of singular godliness and discreet reputation, soon 
refrained from asking any more questions. An ambitious 
young Lutheran preacher came, and, addressing himself to 
all assembled, loudly extolled the superhuman virtues of 
the dead “ Mother of the village,” as Lovisa had been 
called, — amid the hysterical weeping and moaning of the 
mourners, he begged them to look upon her “ venerated 
face ” and observe “ the smile of God’s own peace engraven 
there,” — and amid all his eloquence, and the shrieking ex- 
citement of his fanatical hearers, Ulrika alone w^as silent. 

She sat stern and absorbed, with set lips and lowered eye- 
lids at the head of the bed w^hereon the corpse was now 
laid out, grimly rigid, — with bound-up jaws, and clasped 
fingers like stiff, dried bones. Her thoughts dwelt gloom- 
ily and intently on Giildmar’s words — “ The Eternal Jus- 
tice cannot err.” Eternal Justice 1 What sentence would 
Eternal Justice pass upon the crime of murder? — or 
attempt to murder ? “I am guilty,” the unhappy woman 
reflected, with a strong shudder chilling her veins, “ guilty 
even as Lovisa I I tried to kill my child — I thought, I 
hoped it was dead ! It was not my meaning that it should 
live. And this Eternal Justice, may be, will judge the in- 
tention more than the crime. O Lord, Lord I save my 
soul I Teach me how to escape from the condemning fires 
of Thine anger ! ” Thus she prayed and wrestled with her 
accusing self in secret — despair and fear raging in her 
heart, though not a flicker of her inward agitation betrayed 
itself outwardly on her stolid, expressionless features. 

Meanwhile the wind rose to a tearing, thunderous gale, 
and the night, alread}^ so dark, darkened yet more visibly. 
Olaf Guldmar, driving swiftly homewards, caught the first 
furious gust of the storm that came rushing onward from 
the North Cape, and as it swooped sideways against his 
light sledge, he was nearly hurled from his seat by the 


THE LAHD OF THE LONG SHADOW. 

sudden violence of the shock. He settled himself more 
firmly, encouraging with a cheery word the startled rein- 
deer, who stopped short, — stretching out their necks and 
sniffing the air, their hairy sides heaving with the strain of 
trotting against the blast, and the smoke of their breath 
steaming upwards in the frosty air like white vapor. The 
way lay now through a narrow defile bordered with tall 
pines, — and as the terrified animals, recovering, shook the 
tinkling bells on their harness, and once more resumed 
their journey, the road was comparatively sheltered, and 
the wind seemed to sink as suddenly as it rose. There was 
a hush — an almost ominous silence. 

The sledge glided more slowly between the even lines of 
upright giant trees, crowned with icicles and draped in 
snow, — the bonde involuntarily loosened the reins of his 
elfin steeds, and again returned to those painful and solemn 
musings, from which the stinging blow of the tempest had 
for a moment roused him. The proud heart of the old man 
ached bitterly. What 1 All these years had passed, and 
he, the descendant of a hundred Vikings, had been cheated 
of justice ! He had seen his wife, — the treasured darling 
of his days, suffering, — dying, inch by inch, year by year, 
with all her radiant beauty withered, — and he had never 
known her destroyer ! Her fall from the edge of the chasm 
had been deemed by them both an accident, and yet — this 
wretched Lovisa Elsland — mad with misplaced, disappointed 
passion, jealousy, and revenge, — had lived on to the ex- 
treme of life, triumphant and unsuspected. 

“ I swear the gods have played me false in this ! ” he mut- 
tered, lifting his eyes in a sort of fierce appeal to the 
motionless pinetops stiff with frost. The mystery of the 
old hag’s hatred of his daughter was now made clear — she 
resembled her mother too closely to escape Lovisa’s malice. 
He remembered the curse she had called down upon the in- 
nocent girl, — how it was she who had untiringly spread 
abroad the report among the superstitious people of the 
place, that Thelma was a witch whose presence was a 
blight upon the land, — how she had decoyed her into the 
power of Mr. Dyceworthy — all was plain — and, notwith- 
standing her deliberate wickedness, she had lived her life 
without punishment ! This was what made Giildmar’s 
blood burn, and pulses thrill. He could not understand 
why the Higher Powers had permitted this error of justice, 
and, like many of his daring ancestors, he was ready to 


476 


mELMA. 


fling defiance in the very face of Odin, and demand-^ 
“ Why, — 0 thou drowsy god, nodding over thy wine-cups, 
— why didst thou do this thing ? ’* 

Utter fearlessness, — bodily and si^iritual, — fearlessness of 
past, present, or future, life or death, — was Giildmar’s 
creed. The true Norse warrior spirit was in him — had he 
been told, on heavenly authority, that the lowest range of 
the ‘ Nastrond ” or Scandinavian Hell, awaited him, he 
would have accepted his fate with unflinching firmness. 
The indestructibility of the soul, and the certainty that it 
must outlive even centuries of torture, and triumph glori- 
ously in the end, was the core of the faith he professed. 
As he glanced upwards, the frozen tree-tops, till then rigidly 
erect, swayed slightly from side to side with a crackling 
sound — but he paid no heed to this slight warning of a 
fresh attack from the combative storm that was gathering 
together and renewing its scattered forces. He began to 
think of his daughter, and the grave lines on his face re- 
laxed and softened. 

“ ’Tis all fair sailing for the child,” bemused. “ For that I 
should be grateful I The world has been made a soft nest 
for my bird, — I should not complain, — my own time is 
short.” His former anger calmed a little — the brooding 
irritation of his mind became gradually soothed. 

“ Rose of my heart I ” he whispered, tenderly apostrophiz- 
ing the memory of his wife, — that lost jewel of love, whose 
fair body lay enshrined in the king’s tomb by the Fjord. 
“ Wrongfully done to death as thou wert, and brief time as 
we had for loving ; — in spite of thy differing creed, I feel 
that I shall meet thee soon I Yes — in the woild beyond 
the stars, they will bring thee to me in Valhalla, — whereso- 
ever thou art, thou wilt not refuse to come 1 The gods 
themselves cannot unfasten the ties of love between us I ” 

As he half thought, .half uttered, these words, the rein- 
deer again stopped abruptly, rearing their antlered heads 
and panting heavily. Hark ! wUat was that ? A clear, 
far-reaching note of music seemingly wakened from the 
waters of the Fjord and rising upwards, upwards, with bell- 
like distinctness ! Giildmar leaned from his motionless 
sledge and listened in awe — it was the same sound he had 
before heard as he stood by Lovisa Elsland’s death-bed — 
and was in truth nothing but a strong current of wind 
blowing through the arched and honeycombed rocks by the 
sea, towards the higher land, — creating the same effect as 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


477 


though one should breathe forcibly through a pipe-like in- 
strument of dried and hollow reeds, — and being rendered 
more jesonant by the intense cold, it bore a striking simi- 
larity to the full blast of a war-trumpet. For the worship- 
per of Odin, it had a significant and supernatural meaning, 
— and he repeated his former action — that of drawing the 
knife from his girdle and kissing the hilt. “ If Death is 
near me,” he said in a loud voice, “ I bid it welcome I The 
gods know that I am ready I ” 

He waited as though expecting some answer — but there 
was a brief, absolute silence. Then, with a wild shriek and 
riotous uproar, the circling tempest, — before uncertain and 
vacillating in its wrath, — pounced, eagle-like, downward 
and grasped the mountains in its talons, — the strong pines 
rocked backwards and forwards as though bent by Hercu- 
lean hands, crashing their frosted branches madly together : 
— the massive clouds in the sky opened and let fall their 
burden of snow. Down came tlie large fleecy flakes, twist- 
ing dizzily round and round in a white w^altz to the whirl 
of the wind — faster — faster — heavier and thicker, till there 
seemed no clear space in the air. Giildmar urged on the 
reindeer, more anxious for their safety than his own — the 
poor beasts were fatigued, and the blinding snow confused 
them, but they struggled on patiently, encouraged by their 
master’s voice and the consciousness that the}^ were nearing 
home. The storm increased in fury — and a fierce gust of 
frozen sleet struck the sledge like a strong hammer-stroke 
as it adv'anced through the rapidly deepening snow-drifts — 
its guiding lantern was extinguished. Giildmar did not 
stop to relight it — he knew he was approaching his flxrm, 
and he trusted to the instinct and sagacity of his steeds. 

There was indeed but a short distance to go, — the 
narrow wooded defile opened out on two roads, one leading 
direct to Bosekop — the other, steep and tortuous, winding 
down to the shore of the Fjord — this latter passed the 
bonders gate. Once out of the shadow of the pines, the way 
would be more distinctly seen, — the very reindeer seemed 
to be conscious of this, for they trotted more steadily, 
shaking their bells in even and rhythmical measure. As 
they neared the end of the long dark vista, a sudden bright- 
blue glare quivered and sprang wave-like across the snow 
— a fantastic storm-aurora that flashed and played among 
the feathery falling flakes of white till they looked like 
knots and clostcrs of sparkling jewels. The extreme point 


478 


THELMA. 


of the close defile was reached at last, and here the land 
scape opened up wide, rocky and desolate — a weird picture, 
— with the heavy clouds above repeatedly stabbed through 
and through by the needle-pointed beams of the aurora 
borealis, — and the blank whiteness of the ground below. 
Just as the heads of the reindeer were turned into the 
homeward road, half of the aurora suddenly faded, leav- 
ing the other half still beating out its azure brilliance 
against the horizon. At the same instant, with abrupt 
swiftness, a dark shadow, — so dark as to seem almost 
palpable, — descended and fell directly in front of the ad- 
vancing sledge — a sort of mist that appeared to block the 
way. 

Glildmar leaned forward and gazed with eager, straining 
eyes into that drooping gloom — a shadow ? — a mere vapor, 
with the Northern Lights glimmering through its murky 
folds ? Ah no — no 1 For him it was something very dif- 
ferent, — a heavenly phantasm, beautiful and grand, with 
solemn meaning I He saw a Maiden, majestically tall, of 
earnest visage and imperial mien, — her long black hair 
streamed loose upon the wind — in one hand she held a shin- 
ing shield — in the other a lifted spear I On her white 
brow rested a glittering helmet, — her bosom heaved 
beneath a corslet of pale gold — she fixed her divine, dark 
eyes full upon his face and smiled 1 With a cry of wonder 
and ecstacy the old man fell back in his sledge, — the reins 
dropped from his hands, — “ The Valkyrie I the Valkyrie I ” 
he exclaimed. 

A mere breathing space, and the shadow vanished, — the 
aurora came out again in unbroken splendor — and the 
reindeer, feeling no restraint upon them, and terrified by 
something in the air, or the ceaseless glitter, of the lights 
in the sky, started off precipitately at full gallop. The 
long reins trailed loosely over their backs, lashing their 
sides as they ran — Giildmar, recovering from his momen- 
tary awe and bewilderment, strove to seize them, but in 
vain. He called, he shouted, — the frightened animals were 
utterly beyond control, and dashed madly down the steep 
road, swinging the sledge from side to side, and entangling 
themselves more and more with the loose reins, till, irritated 
beyond endurance, confused and blinded b^^ the flash of the 
aurora and the dizzy whirl of the swiftly falling snow, 
they made straight for a steep bank, — and before the bonde 
bad time to realize the situation and jump from the sledge 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


479 


— crash 1 down they went with a discordant jangle of bells, 
their hoofs splitting a thin, sharp shelf of ice as they leaped 
forward, — dragging the light vehicle after them, and twist- 
ing it over and over till it was a mere wreck, — and throw- 
ing out its occupant head foremost against a jagged stone. 

Then more scared than ever, they strove to clamber out 
of the gully into which they had recklessly sprung, but, 
foiled in these attempts, they kicked, plunged, and reared, 
— trampling heedlessly over the human form lying helpless 
among the shattered fragments of the sledge, — till tired 
out at last, they stood motionless, panting with terror. 
Their antlered heads cast fantastic patterns on the snow 
in the varying rose and azure radiance that rippled from 
the waving ribbons of the aurora, — and close to them, his 
slowly trickling life-blood staining the white ground, — his 
hair and beard glittering jn the light like frosted silver, — • 
his eyes fast closed as though he slept, — lay Olaf Guldmar 
unconscious — dying. The spear of the Yalkyrie had 
fallen I 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

^ Bury me not when I am dead — 

Lay me not down in a dusty bed ; 

I could not bear the life down there, 

With the wet worms crawling about my hair ! 

Eeic Mackay. 

Long hours passed, and the next day dawned, if the dim 
twilight that glimmered faintly across the AltenQord could 
be called a dawn. The snow-fall had ceased, — the wind had 
sunk — there was a frost-bound, monotonous calm. The 
picturesque dwelling of the bonde was white in every part, 
and fringed with long icicles, — icicles drooped from its shel- 
tering porch and gabled windows — the deserted dove-cote 
on the roof was a miniature ice-palace, curiously festooned 
with thin threads and crested pinnacles of frozen snow» 
Within the house there was silence, — the silence of ap- 
proaching desolation. In the room where Thelma used to 
sit and spin, a blazing fire of pine sparkled on the walls, 
casting ruddy outward flashes through the frost-covered 
lattice-windows, — and here, towards the obscure noon, Olaf 
Guldmar awoke from his long trance of insensibility. He 
found himself at home, stretched on his own bed, and 


480 


THELMA. 


looked about him vacantly. In the earnest and watchful 
countenance that bent above his pillow, he slowly recognized 
his friend, companion, and servant, Yaldemar Svensen, and 
though returning consciousness brought with it throbs of 
agonizing pain, he strove to smile, and feebly stretched out 
his hand. Yaldemar grasped it — kissed it — and in spite of 
his efforts to restrain his emotion, a sigh, that was almost a 
groan, escaped him. The bonde smiled again, — then lay 
quiet for a few moments as though endeavoring to collect 
his thought. Presently he spoke — his voice was faint yet 
distinct. 

“ What has happened, Yaldemar ? ” he asked. “ How is 
it that the strength has departed from me ? ” 

Svensen dropped on his knees by the bedside. “ An ac- 
cident, my Lord Olaf,” he began falteringl}'-. 

Guldmar’s eyes suddenly lightened. “ Ah, I remember I ” 
he said. “ The rush down the valley — I remember all 1 ” 
He paused, then added gently, “ And so the end has come, 
Yaldemar I ” 

Svensen uttered a passionate exclamation of distress. 

“ Let not my lord say so ! ” he murmured appealingly, 
with the air of a subject entreating favor from a king. 
“ Or, if it must be, let me also travel with thee wherever 
thou goest ! ” 

Olaf Guldmar’s gaze rested on him with a musing ten- 
derness. 

“ ’Tis a far journey,” he said simply. “ And thou art 
not summoned.” He raised his arm to test its force — for 
one second it was uplifted, — then it fell powerless at his 
side. “ I am conquered ! ” he went on with a cheerful air. 
“ The fight is over, Yaldemar ! Surely I have had a long 
battle, and the time for rest and reward is welcome.” He 
was silent for a little, then continued, “ Tell me — how — 
where didst thou find me ? It seems I had a dream, strange, 
and glorious — then came a rushing sound of wheels and 
clanging bells, — and after that, a long deep silence.” 

Speaking in low tones, Yaldemar briefly related the 
events of the past night. How he had heard the reindeer’s 
gallop down the road, and the quick jangling of the bells 
on their harness, and had concluded that the bonde was re- 
turning home at extraordinary speed — ,how these sounds 
had suddenly and unaccountably ceased, — how, after wait- 
ing for some time, and hearing nothing more, he had be- 
come greatly alarmed, and, taking a pine-torch, had gone 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


481 


out to see what had occurred, — how he had found the rein- 
deer standing by the broken sledge in the gully, and how, 
after some search, he had finally discovered his master, ly- 
ing half-covered by the snow, and grievousl 3 ^ injured. How 
he had lifted him and carried him into the house, 

“ By my soul I ” interrupted the honde cheerfully, “ thou 
must have found me no light weight, Yaldemar ! See 
what a good thing it is to be a man — with iron muscles, 
and strong limbs, and hardy nerve ! By the Hammer of 
Thor ! the glorious gift of strong manhood is never half ap- 
preciated I As for me — I am a man no longer I ” 

He sighed a little, and, passing his sinewy hand across 
his brow, la}^ back exhausted. He was racked by bodily 
torture, but, — unflinching old hero as he was, — gave no 
sign of the agonizing pain he suffered. Valdemar Svensen 
had risen from his knees, and now stood gazing at him with 
yearning, miserable eyes, his brown, weather-beaten visage 
heavily marked with lines of grief and despair. He knew 
that he was utterly powerless — that nothing could save the 
noble life that was ebbing slowly away before him. His 
long and varied experience as a sailor, pilot, and traveller 
in many countries had given him some useful knowledge of 
medicine and surgery, and if anything was possible to be 
done, he could do it. But in this case no medical skill 
would have been availing — the old man’s ribs were crushed 
in and his spine injured, — his death was a question of but a 
few hours at the utmost, if so long. 

“ Olaf the King I ” muttered the honde presently. 
“ True I They make no mistakes 3 ^onder, — they know each 
warrior by name and rank — ’tis only in this world we are 
subject to error. This world 1 B}^ the gods ! . . . ’tis but 

a puff of thistle-down — or a light mist floating from the 
sunset to the sea I ” 

He made a vigorous attempt to raise himself from his 
pillow — though the excruciating anguish caused by his 
movement, made him wince a little and grow paler. 

“Wine, Yaldemar 1 Fill the horn cup to the brim and 
bring it to me — I must have strength to speak — before I 
depart — on the last great journe}^” 

Obediently and in haste, Svensen filled the cup he asked 
for with old Lacrima Christi, of which there was alwa 3 ^s a 
supply in this far Northern abode, and gave it to him, 
watching him with a sort of superstitious reverence as he 
drained off its contents and returned it empty. 


482 


THELMA 


“ All I That warms this freezing blood of mine,” he said 
the lustre flashing back into his eyes. “ ’Twill lind fresh 
force to flow a brief while longer. Valdemar — I have little 
time to spend with thee — I feel death herej "' — and he 
slightly touched his chest — “ cold — cold and heavy. ’Tis 
nothing — a passing, chilly touch that sweeps away the 
world 1 But the warmth of a new, strong life awaits me — 
a life of never-ending triumph I The doors of Yalhalla 
stand wide open — I heard the trumpet-call last night^ — I 
saw the dark-haired Yalkyriel All is well — and my soul 
is full of rejoicing. Yaldemar — there is but one thing now 
thou hast to do for me, — the one great service thou hast 
sworn to render. Fulfill thine oath ! ” 

Yaldemar’s brown cheek blanched, — his lips quivered, — 
he flung up his hands in wild appeal. The picturesque 
flow of his native speech gained new fervor and eloquence 
as he spoke. 

“ Not yet — not yet, my lord I ” he cried passionately. 
“ Wait but a little — there is time. Think for one moment 
— think 1 Would it not be well for my lord to sleep the 
last sleep by the side of his beloved Thelma — the star of 
the dark mountains — the moonbeam of the night of his 
life? Would not peace enwrap him there as with a soft 
garment, and would not his rest be lulled by the placid 
murmur of the sea ? For the days of old time and storm 
and victory are past — and the dead slumber as stones in 
the silent pathways — why would iny lord depart in haste 
as though he were wrathful, from the land he has loved? 
— from the vassal who implores his pardon for pleading 
against a deed he dares not do I ” 

“ Dares not — dares not I ” cried the bonde^ springing up 
half-erect from his couch, in spite of pain, and looking like 
some enraged old lion with his tossed, streaming hair and 
glittering eyes. “ Serf as thou art and coward ! Thinkest 
thou an oath such as thine is but a thread of hair, to be 
snapped at thy pleasure ? Wilt thou brave the wrath of 
the gods and the teeth of the Wolf of Nastrond ? As surely 
as the seven stars shine on the white brow of Thor, evil 
shall be upon thee if thou refusest to perform the vow thou 
hast sworn ! And shall a slave have strength to resist the 
dying curse of a King ? ” 

The pride, the supreme authority, — the magnified 
strength of command that flushed the old man’s features, 
were extraordinary and almost terrible in their impressive 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


483 


grandeur. If he indeed believed himself by blood a king 
and a descendant of kings, — he could not have shown a 
more forcible display of personal sovereignty. The effect of 
bis manner on Yaldemar was instantaneous, — the super- 
stitious fears of that bronzed sea-wanderer were easily ' 
aroused. His head drooped — he stretched out his hands im- 
ploringly, 

“ Let not my lord curse his servant,” he faltered. “ It 
was but a tremor of the heart that caused my tongue to 
speak foolishly. I am ready — I have sworn — the oath 
shall be kept to its utmost end I ” 

Olaf Giildmar’s threatening countenance relaxed, and he 
fell back on his pillows. 

“ It is well ! ” he said feeblj^ and somewhat indistinctly. 

“ Thy want of wdll maddened me — I spoke and lived in 
times that are no more — days of battle — and — glory — that 
are gone — from men — for ever. More wine, Yaldemar ! — I 
must keep a grip on this slippery life — and yet — I wan- 
der — wander into the — night ” 

His voice ceased, and he sank into a swoon — a swoon 
that was like death. His breathing was scarcely percepti- 
ble, and Svensen, alarmed at his appearance, forced some 
drops of wine between his set lips, and chafed his cold 
hands with anxious solicitude. Slowly and very gradu- 
ally he recovered consciousness and intelligence,, and pres- 
ently asked for a pencil and paper to write a few farewell 
words to his daughter. In the grief and bewilderment of 
the time, A^aldemar entirely forgot to tell him that a let- 
ter from Thelma had arrived for him on the previous 
afternoon while he was away at Talvig, — and was even now 
on the shelf above the chimney, awaiting perusal. Glild- 
mar, ignorant of this, began to write slowly and wdth firm- 
ness, disregarding his rapidly sinking strength. Scarcely 
had he begun the letter, however, than he looked up 
meaningly at Svensen, who stood waiting beside him. 

“ The time grows very short,” he said imperatively. 
“Prepare everything quickly — go! Fear not— I shall 
live to see thee return — and to bless thee for thy faithful 
service.” 

As he uttered these words he smiled ; — and with one 
wistful, yearning look at him, Yaldemar obediently and in- 
stantly departed. He left the house, carrying with him a 
huge pile of dry brushwood, and with the air of a man 
strung up to prompt action, rapidly descended the sloping 


484 


THELMA. 


path, thick with hardened snow, that led downwards to the 
Fjord. On reaching the shore, he looked anxiously about 
him. There was nothing in sight but the distant, twinkling 
lights of Bosekop — the Fjord itself was like a black pool, 
— so still that even the faintest murmur of its rippling 
against the bonders own private pier could be heard, — the 
tide was full up. 

Out of the reach of the encroaching waters, high and 
dry on the beach, was Giildmar’s brig, the Valkyrie., trans- 
formed by the fingers of the frost into a white ship, fantas- 
tically draped with threads of frozen snow and pendent 
icicles. She was placed on a descending plank, to which 
she was attached by a chain and rope pulley, — so that at 
any time of the weather or tide she could be moved glid- 
ingly downwards into deep water — and this was what 
Y aldeniar occupied himself in doing. It was a hard task. 
The chains were stiff with the frost, — but, after some 
patient and arduous striving, they yielded to his efforts, 
and, with slow clank and much creaking complaint, the 
vessel slid reluctantly down and plunged forward, afloat at 
last. Holding her ropes, Yaldemar sprang to the extreme 
edge of the pier and fastened her there, and then getting on 
board, he untied and began to hoist the sails. This was a 
matter of the greatest difficulty, but it was gradually and 
successfully accomplished ; and a strange sight the Valkyrie 
then presented, resting nearly motionless on the black 
Fjord, — her stretched and frosted canvas looking like 
sheeted pearl fringed with silver, — her masts white with 
encrusted snow, and topped with pointed icicles. Leaving 
her for a moment, Yaldemar quickly returned, carrying the 
pile of dry brushwood he had brought, — he descended with 
this into the hold of the ship, and returned without it. 
Glancing once more nervously about him, he jumped from 
the deck to the pier — thence to the shore — and as he did so 
a long dark wave rolled up and broke at his feet. The 
capricious wind had suddenly arisen, — and a moaning 
whisper coming from the adjacent hills gave warning of an- 
other storm. 

Yaldemar hurriedly retraced his steps back to the house, 
— his work with the Valkyrie had occupied him more than 
an hour — the honde, his friend and master, might have died 
during his absence I There was a cold sickness at his heart 
— his feet seemed heavy as lead, and scarcely able to carry 
him along quickly enough — to his credulous and visionary 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW, 


485 


mind, the hovering shadow of death seemed cverywliere,-^ 
in every crackling twig he brushed against, — in every 
sough of the wakening gale that rustled among the bare 
pines. To his intense relief he found Giildmar lying calmly 
back among his pillows, — his ej^es well open and clear, and 
an expression of perfect peace upon his features. He smiled 
as he saw his servant enter. 

“ All is in readiness ? ” he asked. 

Valdemar bent his head in silent assent. 

The bonders face lightened with extraordinary rapture. 

“ I thank thee, old friend ! ” he said in low but glad ao- 
cents. “ Thou knowest 1 could not be at peace in any 
other grave. I have suffered in thine absence, — the suffer- 
ings of the body that, being yet strong in spite of age, ia 
reluctant to take leave of life. But it is past 1 I am as one 
numbed with everlasting frost, — and now I feel no pain. 
And my mind is like a bird that poises for a while over 
past and present, ere soaring into the far future. There are 
things I must yet say to thee, Yaldemar, — give me thy 
close hearing, for m}^ voice is weak.” 

Svensen drew closer, and stood in the humble attitude of 
one who waits a command from some supreme chief. 

“ This letter,” went on the old man, giving him a folded 
paper, “ is to the child of my heart, my Thelma. Send it 
to her — when — I am gone. It will not grieve her, I hope 
— for, as far as I could find words, I have expressed therein 
nothing but joy — the joy of a prisoner set free. Tell her, 
that with all the strength of my perishing body and escap- 
ing soul, I blessed her I . . . her and the husband in whose 
arms she rests in safety.” He raised his trembling hands 
solemnly — “ The gods of my fathers and their attendant 
spirits have her young life in their glorious keeping I — the 
joy of love and purity and peace be on her innocent head 
for ever ! ” 

He paused, — the wind wailed mournfully round the house 
and shook the lattice with a sort of stealthy clatter, like 
a forlorn wanderer striving to creep in to warmth and 
shelter. 

Here, Valdemar,” continued the ho7ide presently, in 
fainter accents, at the same time handing him another 
paper. Here are some scrawled lines — they are plainly 
set forth and signed — which make thee master of this poor 
place and all that it contains.” 


486 


THELMA, 


A low, choked sob broke from Yaldeinar’s broad breast— ^ 
he covered his face with his hands. 

“ Of what av'ail ? ” he murmured brokenly. “ When my 
lord departs, I am alone and friendless 1 ” 

The bonde regarded him with kindly pity. 

“ Tears from the stout heart ? ” he inquired with a sort 
of grave wonder. “ Weep for life, Valdemar — not for 
death I Alone and friendless? Not while the gods are in 
heaven! Cheei thee — thou art strong and in vigorous 
pride of manhood — why should not bright days come for 

thee ” He broke off with a gasp — a sudden access of 

pain convulsed him and rendered his breathing difficult. 
By sheer force of will he mastered the cruel agony, though 
great drops of sweat stood on his brow when he at last 
found voice to continue — 

“ I thought all suffering was past,” he said with a heroic 
smile. “ This foolish flesh and blood of mine dies hard 1 
But, as I was saying to thee, Yaldemar — the farm is thine, 
and all it holds — save some few trifles I have set down to 
be given to my child. There is little worth in what I leave 
thee — the soil is hard and ungrateful — the harvest uncer- 
tain, and the cattle few. Even the reindeer — didst thou 
say they were injured by their fall last night? — I — I for- 
get, ” 

“ No harm has come to them,” said Svensen hastily, see- 
ing that the very effort of thinking was becoming too much 
for the old man. “ They are safe and unhurt. Trouble not 
about these things ! ” 

A strange, unearthly radiance transfigured Giildmar’s 
visage. 

“ Trouble is departing swiftly from me,” he murmured. 

“ Trouble and I shall know each other no more ! ” His 
voice died away inarticulately, and he was silent a little 
space. Suddenly, and with a rush of vigor that seemed 
superhuman, he raised himself nearly erect, and pointed 
outwards with a commanding gesture. 

“ Bear me hence ! ” he cried in ringing tones. “ Hence to 
the mountains and the sea ! ” 

With a sort of mechanical, swift obedience, Yaldemar 
threw open the door — the wind rushed coldly into the 
house, bringing with it large feathery flakes of snow. A 
hand sledge stood outside the porch, — it was always there 
during the winter, being much used for visiting the out- 
lying grounds of the farm,— and to this, Yaldemar pre- 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


487 


pared to carry the honde in his herculean arms. But, on 
being lifted from his couch, the old , man, filled with 
strange, almost delirious force, declared himself able to 
stand, — and, though sutlering deadly anguish at every step, 
did in truth manage to reach and enter the sledge, strongly 
supported by Valdemar. There, however, he fainted — 
and his faithful servant, covering his insensible form wdth 
furs, thought he was dead. But there was now no time for 
hesitation, — dead or living, Olaf Guldmar’s will wms law 
to his vassal, — an oath had been made and must be kept. 
To propel the sledge down to the Fjord was an easy 
matter — how the rest of his duty w^as accomplished he 
never knew. 

lie was conscious of staggering blindly onward, w^eighted 
with a heavy, helpless burden, — he felt the slippery pier be- 
neath his feet — the driving snow and the icy wind on his 
face, — but he was as one in a dream, realizing nothing 
plainl}^, till with a wild start, he seemed to awake — and lo I 
he stood on the glassy deck of the Valkyrie with the body 
of his “ King ” stretched senseless before him ! Had he 
brought him there ? He could not remember what he had 
done during the past few mad minutes, — the earth and sky 
whirled dizzily around him, — he could grasp nothing tan- 
gible in thought or memory. But there, most certainly, 
Olaf Giildmar lay, — his pallid face upturned, his hair and 
beard as white as the snow that clung to the masts of his 
vessel — his hand clenched on the fur garment that en- 
wrapped him as with a robe of royalty. 

Dropping on his knees beside him, Yaldemar felt his 
heart — it still throbbed fitfully and feebly. Watching the 
intense calm of the grand, rugged face, this stern, weather- 
worn sailor — this man of superstitious and heathen imagi- 
nations — gave way to womanish tears — tears that were the 
outcome of sincere and passionate grief. His love was of 
an exceptional type, — something like that of a faithful dog 
tliat refuses to leave the grave of its master, — he could con- 
template death for himself w’ith absolute indifference, — but 
not for the honde., whose sturdy strength and splendid 
ph3"sique had seemed to defy all danger. 

As he knelt and wept unrestrainedly, a soft change, a 
delicate transparency, swept over the dark bosom of the 
sky. Pale pink streaks glittered on the dusky horizon — 
darts of light began to climb upward into the clouds, and 
to plunge downw^ard into the water, — the radiance spread, 


488 


THELMA. 


and gradually formed into a broad band of deep crimson, 
which burned with a fixed and intense glow — topaz-like 
ra 3 's flickered and streamed about it, as though uncertain 
what fantastic shape the}^ should taJ^e to best display their 
brilliancy. This tremulous hesitation of varying color did 
not last long; the whole jewel-like mass swept together, 
expanding and contracting with extraordinaiy swiftness 
for a few seconds — then, suddenly and clearly defined in the 
sk}^, a Kingly Crown blazed forth — a Crown of perfect 
shape, its five points distinctly and separatelj^ outlined and 
flashing as with a million rubies and diamonds. The red 
lustre warmly tinged the pale features of the djdng man, 
and startled Yaldemar, who sprang to his feet and gazed 
at that mystic aaireola with a cry of wonder. At the same 
moment Olaf Giildmar stirred, and began to speak 
drowsily without opening bis eyes. 

“ Dawn on the sea I ” he murmured. “ The white waves 
gleam and sparkle beneath the prow, and the ship makes 
swift way through the w^ater I It is dawn in my heart — 
the dawn of love for thee and me, my Thelma — fear not 1 
The rose of passion is a hardy flower that can bloom in the 
north as well as in the south, ])elieve me I Thelma — 
Thelma ! ” 

He suddenly opened his eyes, and realizing his surround- 
ings, raised himself half-erect. 

“ Set sail !” he cried, pointing wdth a majestic motion of 
his arm to the diadem glittering in' the sky. ‘‘ Why do we 
linger ? The wind favors us, and the tide sweeps forward 
— forward I See how the lights beckon from the harbor I ” 
He bent his brows and looked almost angrily at Svensen. 
“ Do what thou hast to do I and his tones were sharp and 
imperious. “ I must press on ! ” 

An expression of terror, pain, and pity passed over the 
sailor’s countenance — for one instant he hesitated — the next, 
he descended into the hold of the vessel. He was absent 
for a veiy little space, — but when he returned his eyes were 
wild as though he had been engaged in some dark and 
criminal deed. Olaf Giildmar was still gazing at the 
brilliancy in the heavens, which seemed to increase in size 
and lustre as the wind rose higher. Svensen took his hand 
— it was icy cold, and damp with the dew of death. 

“ Let me go with thee I ” he implored, in broken accent. 
“ I fear nothing I Why should I not venture also on the 
last voyage ? ” 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


48 ^ 


Guldmar made a faint but decided sign of rejection. 

“The Yiking sails alone to the grave of his fathers 1 ” he 
said, with a serene and proud smile. “ Alone — alone I 
Neither wife, nor child, nor vassal may have place with him 
in his ship — even so have the gods willed it. Farewell, 
V aldemar I Loosen the ropes and let me go I — thou servest 
me ill — hasten — hasten — I am weary of waiting ” 

His head fell back, — that mysterious shadow which dark- 
ens the face of the dying a moment before dissolution, was 
on him now. 

J ust then a strange, suffocating odor began to permeate 
the air — little wreaths of pale smoke made their slow way 
through the boards of the deck — and a fierce gust of wind, 
blowing seawards from the mountains, swayed the Valkyrie 
-uneasily to and fro. Slowly, and with evident reluctance, 
Sevensen commenced the work of detaching her from the 
pier, — feeling instinctively all the while that his master’s 
dying e^^es were fixed upon him. When but one slender 
rope remained to be cast off, he knelt by the old man’s side 
and whispered tremblingly that all was done. At the same 
moment a small, stealthy tongue of red flame curled up* 
wards through the deck from the hold, — and Guldmar, ob- 
serving this, smiled. 

“ I see thou hast redeemed thine oath,” he said, grate- 
fully pressing Svensen’s hand. “ ’Tis the last act of thine 
allegiance, — may the gods reward thy faithfulness I Peace 
be with thee 1 — we shall meet hereafter. Already the light 
shines from the Rainbow Bridge, — there, — there are the 
golden peaks of the hills and the stretch of the wide sea I 
Go, Valdemar I — delay no longer, for my soul is impatient 
— it burns, it struggles to be free I Go I — and — farewell 1 ” 

Stricken to the heart, and full of anguish, — yet serf-like 
in his submission and resignation to the inevitable, — Sven- 
sen kissed his master’s hand for the last time. Then, with 
a sort of fierce sobbing groan, wrung from the very depths 
of his despairing grief, he turned resolutely away, and 
sprang off the vessel. Standing at the extreme edge of the 
pier, he let slip the last rope that bound her, — her sails filled 
and bulged outward, — her cordage creaked, she shuddered 
on the water — lurched a little — then paused. 

In that brief moment a loud triumphant cry rang through 
the air. Olaf Giildmar leaped upright on the deck as 
though lifted by some invisible hand, and confronted his 
terrified servants^ who gazed at him in fascinated amazement 


490 


THELMA. 


and awe. His white hair gleamed like ^pun silver — his face 
was transfigured, and wore a strange, rapt look of pale yet 
splendid inajestj'^ — the dark furs that clung about him 
trailed in regal folds to his feet. 

“ Hark 1 ” he cried, and his voice vibrated with deep and 
mellow clearness. “ Hark to the thunder of the galloping 
hoofs ! — see — see the glitter of the shield and spear 1 She 
comes — ah I Thelma ! Thelma 1 ” He raised his arms as 
though in ecstacj^ “ Glory I — joy ! — Victory 1 ” 

And, like a noble tree struck down by lightning, he fell 
. — dead I 

Even as he fell, the Valkyrie plunged forward, driven 
forcibly by a swooping gust of wind, and scudded out to the 
Fjord like a wild bird, flying before a tempest, — and, while 
she thus fled, a sheet of flame burst through her sides and 
blazed upwards, mingling a lurid, smoky glow with the clear 
crimson radiance of the still brilliant and crown-like aurora. 
Following the current, she made swift way across the dark 
water in the direction of the island of Seiland, and presently 
became a wondrous Ship of Fire ! Fire flashed from her 
masts — fire folded up her spars and sails in a devouring 
embrace, — fire, that leaped and played and sent forth a mil- 
lion showering sparks hissingly into the waves beneath. 

With beating heart and straining eyes, Yaldemar Sven- 
sen crouched on the pier-head, watching, in mute agony, the 
burning vessel. He had fulfilled his oath ! — that strange 
vow that had so sternly bound him, — a vow that was the 
outcome of his peculiar traditions and pagan creed. 

Long ago, in the days of his youth, — full of enthusiasm 
for the worship of Odin and the i)ast splendors of the race 
of the great Norse warriors, — he had chosen to recognize in 
Olaf Giildmar a true descendant of kings, who was by blood 
and birth, though not in power, himself a king, — and trac- 
ing his legendary history back to old and half-forgotten 
sources, he had proved, satisfactorily, to his own mind, that 
he, Svensen, must lawfully, and according to old feudal 
system, be this king’s serf or vassal. And, growing more 
and more convinced of this in his dreamy and imaginative 
mind, — he had sworn a sort of mystic friendship and allegi- 
ance, which Giildmar had accepted, imposing on him, how- 
ever, only one absolute command. This was that he should 
be given the “ crimson shroud ” and sea-tomb of his war- 
like ancestors, — for the idea that his body might be touched 
by strange hands, shut in a close coffin, and laid in the 


The land of the long shadow. m 

earth to moulder away to wormy corruption, — had been the 
one fantastic dread of the sturdy old pagan’s life. And he 
had taken advantage of Svensen’s devotion and obedience 
to impress on him the paramount importance of his solitary 
behest. 

“ Let no hypocritical prayers be chanted over my dumb 
corpse,” he had said. “ My blood would ooze from me at 
every pore were I touched by the fingers of a Lutheran 1 
Save this goodly body that has served me so well from the 
inferior dust, — let the bright fire wither it, and the glad sea 
drown it, — and my soul, beholding its end afar ofl*, shall re- 
joice and be satisfied. Swear by the wrath and thunder of 
the gods ! — swear by the unflinching Hammer of Thor, — 
swear by the gates of Valhalla, and in the name of Odin I 
— and having sworn, the curse of all these be upon thee if 
thou fail to keep thy vow 1 ” 

And Valdemar had sworn. Now that the oath was 
kept — now that his promised obedience had been carried 
out to the extremest letter, he was as one stupefied. 
Shivering, yet regardless of the snow that began to fall 
thickly, he kept his post, staring, staring in drear fascina- 
tion across the Fjord, where the Valkyrie drifted, now a 
mass of flame blown fiercely by the wind, and gleaming red 
through the flaky snow-storm. 

The aurora borealis faded by gradual degrees, and the 
blazing ship was more than ever distinctly visible. She 
was seen from the shore of Bosekop, by a group of the in- 
habitants, who, rubbing their dull eyes, could not decide 
whether what they beheld was fire, or a new phase of the 
capricious, ever-changing Northern Lights, — the rapidly 
descending snow rendering their vision bewildered and un- 
certain. Any way, they thought very little about it,— 
they had had excitement of another kind in the arrival of 
Ulrika from Talvig, bringing accounts of the godly Lovisa 
Elsland’s death. 

Moreover, and English steam cargo-boat, bound for the 
North Cape, had, just an hour previously, touched at their 
harbor, to land a passenger, — a mysterious woman closely 
veiled, who immediately on arrival had hired a sledge, and 
bad bidden the driver to take her to the house of Olaf 
Giildmar, an eight miles’ journey through the drifted snow. 
All this was intensel}^ interesting to the good, stupid, gossip- 
ing fisher-folks of Bosekop, — so much so, indeed, that they 
scarcely paid any heed to the spectacle of the fiery ship 


492 


THELMA. 


swaying suggestively on the heaving water, and drifting 
rapidly away — away towards the frosted peaks of Seiland. 

Further and further she receded, — the flames around her 
waving like banners in a battle — further and further still — 
till Valdemar Svensen, from his station on the pier, began 
to lose sight of her blazing timbers, — and, starting from his 
reverie, he ran rapidly from the shore, up through the gar- 
den paths to the farm-house, in order to gain the summit, 
and from that point of vantage, watch the last glimmering 
spark of the Yiking’s burial. As he reached the house, he 
stopped short and uttered a wild exclamation. There, — 
under the porch hung with sparkling icicles, — stood 
Thelma ! . . . Thelma, — her face pale and weary, yet 
smiling faintly, — Thelma with the glint of her wondrous 
gold hair escaping from under her hat, and glittering on the 
folds of her dark fur mantle. 

“I have come home, Valdemar!” said the sweet, rich, 
penetrating voice. “ Where is my father ? ” 

As a man distraught, or in some dreadful dream, Yalde- 
mar approached her — the strangeness of his look and 
manner fllled her with sudden fear, — he caught her hand and 
pointed to the dark Fjord — to the spot where gleamed a 
lurid waving wreath of flames. 

“ Frdken Thelma — he is there!'’’* he gasped in choked, 
hoarse tones. “ There — where the gods have called him I ” 

With a faint shriek of terror, Thelma’s blue eyes turned 
toward the shadowy w^ater, — as she looked, a long up-twist- 
ing snake of fire appeared to leap from the perishing 
Valkyrie ^ — a snake that twined its glittering coils rapidly 
round and round on the wind, and as rapidly sank — down 
. — down — to one glimmering spark which glowed redly like 
a floating lamp for a brief space, — and w^as then quenched 
for ever I The ship had vanished ! Thelma needed no ex- 
planation, — she knew her father’s creed — she understood 
all. Breaking loose from Yaldemar’s grasp, she rushed a 
few steps forward with arms outstretched on the bitter, 
snowy air. 

‘^'Father! father!” she cried aloud and sobbingly. 

Wait for me! — it is I Thelma! — I am coming — Father!” 

The white world around her grew black — and, shuddering 
like a shot bird, she fell sem-cl^ss. 

Instantly Yaldemar raised iier from the ground, and 
holding her tenderly and reverently in his strong arms, 
carried her, as though she were a child, into the house. . . ! 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


493 


The clouds darkened — the snow-storm thickened — the 
mountain-peaks, stern giants, frowned through their sleety 
veils at the arctic desolation of the land below them, — and 
over the charred and sunken corpse of the departed servant 
of Odin, sounded the solemn De Profiindis of the sea. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

“ The body is tlie storm ; 

The soul the star beyond it, in the deep 
Of Nature’s calm. And, yonder, on the steep, 

The Sun of Faith, quiescent, round, and warm ! ” 

Late on that same night, the pious Ulrika was engaged 
in prayer. Prayer with her was a sort of fanatical wres- 
tling of the body as well as of the soul, — she was never con- 
tented unless by means of groans and contortions she could 
manage to work up by degrees into a condition of hysteria 
resembling a mild epileptic attack, in which state alone she 
considered herself worthy to approach the Deity. On this 
occasion she had some difficulty to attain the desired result 
—her soul, as she herself expressed it, was “ dry ” — and her 
thoughts wandered, — though she pinched her neck and arms 
with the hard resoluteness of a sworn flagellant, and 
groaned, “ Lord, have mercy on me a sinner !” with indefat- 
igable earnestness. She was considerably startled in the 
midst of these energetic devotions by a sudden jangling of 
sledge-bells, and a loud knocking — a knocking which threat- 
ened to break down the door of the small and humble house 
she inhabited. Hastily donning the coarse gown and bod- 
ice she had recently taken off in order to administer chas- 
tisement to her own flesh more thoroughly, she unfastened 
her bolts and bars, and, lifting the latch, was confronted by 
Valdemar Svensen, who, nearly breathless with swift driv- 
ing through the snow-storm, cried out in quick gasps — 

“ Come with me — come ! She is dying ! ” 

“ God help the man I ” exclaimed Ulrika startled. “ Who 
is dying ? ” 

“ She — the Frdken Thelma — Lady Errington — she is all 
alone up there,” and he pointed distractedl}' in the direction 
from whence he had come. “ I can get no one in Bosekop, 
— the women are cowards all, — all afraid to go near her,” 
and he wrung his hands in passionate distress. 


494 


THELMA. 


Ulrika pulled a thick shawl from the nail where it hung 
and wrapped it round her. 

“ I am ready,” she said, and without more delay, stepped 
into the waiting sledge, while Yaldemar, with an exclama- 
tion of gratitude and relief, took his place beside her. 
“But how is it ? ” she asked, as the reindeer started off at 
full speed, “ how is it that the bonders daughter is again at 
the Altenfjord?” 

“ I know not ! ” answered Sven son despairingly. “ 1 
would have given my life not to have told her of her father’s 
death.” 

“ Death ! ” cried Ulrika. “ Olaf Giildmar dead ! Im- 
possible ! Only last night I saw him in the pride of his 
strength, — and thought I never had beheld so goodly a 
man. Lord, Lord! That he should be dead ! ” 

In a few words Svensen related all that had happened, 
with the exception of the fire-burial in the Fjord. 

But Ulrika immediately asked, “ Is his body still in the 
house ? ” 

Svensen looked at her darkly. “ Hast thou never heard 
Ulrika,” he said solemnly, “ that the bodies of men who fol- 
low Olaf Giildmar’s creed, disappear as soon as the life de- 
parts from them ? It is a myster3^ — strange and terrible I 
But this is true — my master’s sailing-ship has gone, and his 
body with it — and I know not where I ” 

Ulrika surveyed him steadily with a slow, incredulous 
smile. After a pause, she said — 

“ Fidelit^Mn a servant is good, Yaldemar Svensen 1 I 
know you well — I also know that a pagan shrinks from 
Christian burial. Enough said — I will ask no more — but 
if Olaf Giildmar’s ship’s has gone, and he with it, — I warn 
you, the village will wonder.” 

“ I cannot help it,” said Svensen with cold brevity. “ I 
have spoken truth — he has gone ! I saw him die — and then 
vanish. Believe it or not as 3^011 will, I care not 1 ” 

And he drove on in silence. Ulrika was silent too. 

She had known Yaldemar Svenson for many years — he 
was a man universall3^ liked and respected at all the harbors 
and different fishing-stations of Norway, and his life was an 
open book to everybody, with the exception of one page, 
which was turned down and sealed, — -this was the question 
of his religious belief. No one knew what form of faith he 
followed, — it was 01113’' when he went to live with thefcondc, 
after Thelma’s marriage, — that the nature of his creed was 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


495 


suspected. But Ulrika had no dislike for him on 
this account, — her opinions had changed very much during 
the past few months. As devout a Lutheran as ever, she 
began to entertain a little more of the true spirit of Chris^ 
tianit}^ — that spirit of gentle and patient tolerance which 
full of forbearance towards all humanit}^, is willing to ad 
mit the possibility of a little good in everything, even in 
the blind tenents of a heathen creed. Part of this altera 
tion in her was due to the gratitude she secretly felt to^ 
wards the Giildmar family, for having saved from destruc- 
tion, — albeit unconscious of his parentage, — Sigurd, the 
child she had attempted to murder. The hideous malevo- 
lence of Lovisa E Island’s nature had shown her that there 
may be bad Lutherans, — the invariable tenderness displayed 
by the Giildmars for her unrecognized, helpless and dis- 
traught son, — had proved to her that there may be good 
heathens. Hearing thus suddenly of the bonders death, 
she was strangely affected — she could almost have wept. 
Slie felt perfectly convinced that Svensen had made away 
with his master’s body by some mysterious rite connected 
with pagan belief, — she knew that Giildmar himself, accord- 
ing to rumor, had buried his own wife in some unknown 
spot, wdth strange and weird ceremonials, but she was in- 
clined to be tolerant, — and glancing at Svensen’s grave, 
pained face from time o time as she sat beside him in the 
sledge, she resolved to ask him no more questions on the 
subject, but to accept and support, if necessary, the theory 
he had so emphatically set forth, — namely, the in3^stical 
evanishment of the corpse by some supernatural agency. 

As the}^ neared their ' stination, she began to think of 
Thelma, the beautiful, proud girl whom she remembered 
best as standing on a little green-tufted hillock with a 
cluster of pansies in her hand, and Sigurd — Sigurd cling- 
ing fondl}" to her white skirts, with a wealth of passionate 
devotion in his upturned, melancholy, blue e^^es. Ulrika 
had seen her but once since then, — and that was on the oc- 
casion when, at the threat of Lovisa E Island, and the com- 
mand of the Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy, she had given her 
Sir Philip Errington’s card, with the false message written 
on it that had decoyed her for a time into the wily minis- 
ter’s power. She felt a thrill of shame as she remembered 
the part she had played in that cruel trick, — and reverting 
once more to the memory of Sigurd, whose tragic end at 
the Fall of Njedegorze she had learned through Yaldemar, 


496 


THELMA, 


she resolved to make amends now that she had the chances, 
and to do her best for Thelma in her suffering and trouble. 

“ For who knows,’’ mused Ulrika, “ Whether it is not the 
Lord’s hand that is extended towards me, — and that in the 
ministering to the wants of her whom I wronged, and 
whom my son so greatly loved, I may not thereby" cancel 
the past sin, and work out my own redemption I ” 

And her dull eyes brightened with hope, and her heart 
, warmed, — she began to feel almost humane and S3nni)a- 
thetic, — and was so eager to commence her office of nurse 
and consoler to Thelma that she jumped out of the sledge 
almost before it had stopped at the farm gate. Disregard- 
ing Yaldemar’s assistance, she clambered sturdily over tbe 
drifted heaps of slippery snow that blocked the deserted 
pathways, and made for the house, — Valdemar following 
her as soon as he had safely fastened up the sledge, which 
was not his own, he having in emergency borrowed it from 
a neighbor. As they approached, a sound came floating to 
meet them — a sound which made them pause and look at 
each other in surprise and anxiety. Some one was singing, 
—a voice full and clear, though with a strange, uncertain 
quiver in it, rippled out in wild strains of minor melody on 
the snow-laden air. For one moment Ulrika listened doubt- 
edl}^, and then without more delaj^ ran hastily forward and 
entered the house. -Thelma was there, — sitting at the lat- 
tice window which she had thrown wide open to the icy 
blast, — she had taken off her cloak and hat, and her hair, 
unbound, fell about her in a great, glittering tangle of gold, 
— her hands were busy manii)ulating an imaginary si)in- 
ning-wheel— her e 3 ^es were brilliant as jewels, but full ol 
pain, terror, and pathos. She smiled a piteous smile as she 
became hazily conscious that there were others in the room 
— but she went on with her song — a mournful, Norwegian 
ditty, — till a suddeiir break in her voice caused her to put 
her hand to her throat and look up perplexedly. 

“ That song pleases you ? ” she asked softly, “ I am A^ery 
glad! lias Sigurd come home? He Avandcrs so much, 
poor boy ! Father, dear, you must tell him how wrong it 
is not to love Philip. Every one loves Phili[) — and I — I 
love him too, but he must never know that.” She paused 
and sighed. “ That is my secret, — the only one I have 1 ” 
And she drooped her fair head fo]'lornl 3 \ 

Moved by intense pity, such as she had never felt in all 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


497 


her life before, Ulrika went up and tried to draw her gently 
from the window. 

‘‘ Poor thing, poor thing ! ” she said kindly. “ Come 
away with me, and lie down ! You mustn’t sit here, — let 
me shut the lattice, — it’s quite late at night, and too cold 
for you, my dear.” 

“ Too cold? ” and Thelma eyed her wonderingly. “ Why, 
it is summer-time, and the sun never sets ! The roses are 
all about the walls — I gave one to Philip yesterday — a 
little pale rose with a crimson heart. He wore it, and 
seemed glad ! ” 

She passed her hand across her forehead with a troubled 
air, and watched Ulrika, who quietly closed the window 
against the darkness and desolation of the night. “ Are 
you a friend ? ” she asked presently in anxious tones. “ I 
know so many that say they are my friends — but I am 
afraid of them all — and I have left them. Do you know 
why ? ” and she laid her hand on Ulrika’s rough arm. “ Be- 
cause they tell me my Philip does not love me any more. 
They are very cruel to say so, and I think it cannot be 
true. I want to tell my father what they say — because he 
will know — and if it is true, then I wish to die, — I could 
not live ! Will you take me to my father? ” 

The plaintive, pleading gentleness of her voice and look 
brought more tears into Ulrika’s ej^es than had ever been 
forced there by her devotional exercises, — and the miser- 
able Valdemar, already broken-hearted by his master’s 
death, turned away and sobbingly cursed his gods for this 
new and undeserved affliction. As the Italian peasantry 
fall to abusing their saints in time of trouble, even so will 
the few remaining believers in Norse legendary lore, up- 
braid their fierce divinities with the most reckless hardi- 
hood when things go wrong. There were times when Yal- 
demar Svensen secretly quailed at the mere thought of the 
wrath of Odin, — there were others when he was ready to 
j)luck the great god by the beard and beat him with the 
flat of his own drawn Sword. This was his humor at the 
present moment, as he averted his gaze from the pitiful 
sight of his “ King’s ” fair daughter all desolate and woe- 
begone, her lovely face pale with anguish, — her sweet wits 
wandering, and her whole demeanor that of one who is lost 
in some dark forest, and is weary unto death. She studied 
Ulrika’s rough visage attentively, and presently noticed 
the tears on her cheeks^ 


498 


THELMA, 


“ You are crying 1 ” she said in a tone of grave surprise. 
“ Why ? It is foolish to cry even when the heart aches. 1 
have found that, — no one in the world ever pities you ! 
But perhaps you do not know the world, — ah ! it is very 
hard and cold ; — all the people hide their feelings, and pre- 
tend to be what they are not. It is difficult to live so, — 
and I am tired I ” 

She rose from her chair, and stood up unsteadily, stretch- 
ing out her little cold white hands to Ulrika, who folded 
them in her own strong coarse palms. “ Yes — I am A-^ery 
tired ! ” she went on dreamily. “ There seems to be noth- 
ing that is true — all is false and unreal — I cannot under- 
stand ! But you seem kind,” — here her swaying figure 
tottered, and Ulrika drew lier more closely to herself — “ I 
think I know you — you came with me in the train, did you 
not ? Yes — and the little baby smiled and slept in my 
arms nearly all the way.” A Auolent shuddering seized 
her, and a quiver of agony passed over her face. 

“ Forgive me,” she murmured, ‘‘ I feel ill — very ill — and 
cold: — but do not mind — I think — I am — dying ! ” She 
could scarcely articulate these last w^ords — she sank for- 
ward, fainting, on Ulrika’s breast, and that devout disciple 
of Luther, forgetting all her former dread of the “ white 
witch of the Alten^ord ” — only remembered that she held 
in her arms a helpless woman with all the sorrows and 
pangs of womanhood thick upon her, — and in this act of 
warm heart-expansion and timely tenderness, it may be 
that she cleansed her soiled soul in the sight of the God 
she worshipped, and won a look of pardon from the ever- 
watchful eyes of Christ. 

As far as mundane matters were concerned, she showed 
herself a woman of prompt energy and decision. Laying 
Thelma gently down upon the very couch her dead father 
had so lately occupied, she sent the distracted Valdemar 
out to gather fresh pine-logs for the fire, and then busied 
herself in bringing down Thelma’s own little bed from the 
upper floor, airing it with methodical care, and making it 
as warm and cosy as a bird’s-nest. While she was engaged 
in these preparations, Thelma regained her consciousness, 
and began to toss and tumble and talk deliriously ; but 
with it all she retained the innate gentleness and patience, 
and submitted to be undressed, though she began to sob 
pleadingly when Ulrika would have removed her hus- 
band’s miniature from where it lay pressed against her 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


499 


bosom, — and taking it in her own hand she kissed and held 
it fast. One by one, the daint}^ articles of delicate apparel 
she wore were loosened and laid aside, Ulrika wondering at 
the embroidered linen and costly lace, the like of which was 
never seen in that part of Norway, — but wondering still 
more at the dazzling skin she thus unveiled, a skin as ex^ 
qiiisitely soft and pure as the satiny cup of a Nile lily. 

Poor Thelma sat resignedly watching her own attire 
taken from her, and allowing herself to be wrapped in a 
comfortable loose garment of white ivadmel, as warm as 
eider-down, which Ulrika had found in a cupboard upstairs, 
and which, indeed, had once belonged to Thelma, she and 
Britta having made it together. She examined its texture 
now with some faint interest — then she asked plaintively — 

“ Are you going to buiy me ? You must put me to 
sleep with my mother — her name was Thelma, too. I 
think it is an unlucky name.” 

“ Why, my dear ? ” asked Ulrika kindly, as she swept 
the rich tumbled hair from the girl’s eyes, and began to 
braid it in one long loose plait, in order to give her greater 
ease. 

Thelma sighed. “ There is an old song that says ” 

She broke olf. “ Shall I sing it to you ? ” she asked with a 
wild look. 

“ No, no,” said Ulrika. “Not now. B^'-and-by I ” And 
she nodded her head encouragingly^ “ By-and-by^ ! There’ll 
be plenty of time for singing presently^,” and she laid her in 
bed, tucking her up warmly^ as though she were a very 
little child, and feeling strongly inclined to kiss her. 

“ Ah, but I should like to tell you, even if I must not 
sing — ” and Thelma gazed up anxiously'' from her pillow — 
“ only my head is so heavy, and full of strange noises — I do 
not know whether I can remember it.” 

“ Don’t try to remember it,” and Ulrika stroked the soft 
cheek, with a curious yearning sensation of love tugging at 
her tough heartstrings. “ Try to sleep — that will be better 
for you I ” And she took from the fire a warm, nourishing 
drink she had prepared, and gave it to her. She w'as sur- 
prised at the eagerness with which the poor girl seized it. 

“ Lord help us, I believe she is light-headed for want of 
food ! ” she thought. 

Such indeed was the fact, — Thelma had been several days 
on her journeys from Hull, and during that time had eaten 
so little that her strength had entirely given way. The 


500 


THELMA. 


provisions on board the Black Polly were extremely limr 
ited, and consisted of nothing but dried fish, hard bread, 
and weak tea, without milk or sugar, — and in her condition 
of health, her system had rebelled against this daily un- 
tempting bill of fare. Ulrika’s simple but sustaining 
beverage seemed more than delicious to her palate, — she 
drained it to the last drop, and, as she returned the cup, a 
faint color came back to her cheeks and lips. 

“ Thank you,” she said feebly. “ You are very good to 
me I And now I do quite know what I wished to say. It 
was long ago — there was a queen, named Thelma, and some 
one — a great warrior, loved her and found her fair. But 
presently he grew tired of her face — and raised an army 
against her, and took her throne by force, and crowned him- 
self king of all her land. And the song sa3^s that Queen 
Thelma wandered on the mountains all alone till she died — 
it was a sad song — but I forget — the end.” 

And her voice trailed off into broken murmurs, her eyes 
closed, and she slept. Ulrika watched her musingly and 
tenderly — wondering what secret trouble weighed on the 
girl’s mind. When Yaldemar Svensen presently looked in, 
she made him a warning sign — and, hushing his footsteps, 
he went away again. She followed him out into the kitchen, 
where he had deposited his load of pine-wood, and began to 
talk to him in low tones. He listened, — the expression 
of grief and fear deepened on his countenance as he heard. 

“ Will she die ? ” he asked anxiously. 

“ Let us hope not,” returned Ulrika, “ But there is no 
doubt she is very ill, and will be worse. What has brought 
her here, I wonder ? Do you know ? ” 

Yaldemar shook his head. 

“ Where is her husband ? ” went on Ulrika. “ He ought 
to be here. How could he have let her make such a 
journey at such a time I Why did he not come with her ? 
There must be something wrong ! ” 

Svensen looked, as he felt, completely perplexed and 
despairing. He could think of no reason for Thelma’s un- 
expected appearance at the Altenfjord — he had forgotten 
all about the letter that had come from her to her father, — 
the letter which was still in the house, unopened. 

“Well, well! It is very strange!” Ulrika sighed re- 
signedly. “ But it is the Lord’s will — and we must do our 
best for her, that’s all.” And she began to enumerate a list 
of things she wanted from Bosekop for her patient’s sus- 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW, 


501 


tenance and comfort. “ You must fetch all these,” sha 
said, “ as soon as the day is fairly advanced.” She glanced 
at the clock — it was just four in the morning. “ And at 
the same time, 3''ou had better call at the doctor’s house.” 

“ He’s away,” interrupted Valdemar. “ Gone to Christi- 
ania.” 

“ Veiy well,” said Ulrika composedly. “ Then we must 
do without him. Doctors arc never much use, any way, — 
maybe the Lord will help me instead.” 

And she returned to Thelma, who still slept, though her 
hxce was now feverishly flushed and her breathing hurried 
and irregular. 

The hours of the new day, — day, though seeming night, 
passed on and it was verging towards ten o’clock when she 
woke, raving deliriousl}". Her father, Sigurd, Philip, the 
events of her life in London, the fatigues of her journey, 
were all jumbled fantastically together in her brain — she 
talked and sang incessantly, and, like some wild bird sud- 
denly caged, refused to be quieted. Ulrika was all alone 
with her, — Valdemar having gone to execute his com- 
missions in Bosekop, — and she had enough to do to make 
her remain in bed. For she became suddenly possessed by 
a strong desire to go sailing on the Fjord — and occasion- 
all}^ it took all Ulrika’s strength to hold and keep her from 
springing to the window, whose white frosted panes seemed 
to have some fatal attraction for her wandering eyes. 

She spoke of things strange and new to her attendant’s 
ears — frequently she pronounced the names of Violet Vere 
and Lady Winsleigh with an accent of horror, — then she 
would talk of George Lorimer and Pierre Duprez, — and 
she would call for Britta often, sometimes endearingly — ■ 
sometimes impatiently. 

The picture of her home in Warwickshire seemed to 
haunt her, — she spoke of its great green trees, its roses, its 
smooth sloping lawns — then she would begin to smile and 
sing again in such a weak, pitiful fashion that Ulrika, — - 
her stern nature utterly melted at the sight of such inno- 
cent helpless distraction and sorrow, — could do nothing but 
fold the suffering creature in her arms, and rock her to and 
fro soothingly on her breast, the tears running down her 
cheeks the while. 

And after long hours of bewilderment and anguish, Er- 
rington’s cliild, a bo,y, was born — dead. With a regretful 
heart, Ulrika laid out the tiu}^ corpse, — the withered bloa* 


mtlLMA. 


6oa 

som of a promised new delight, a minature form so fair 
and perfect that it seemed sheer cruelty on the part of 
nature to deny it breath and motion. Thelma’s mind still 
wandered — she was hardly conscious of anything — and 
Ulrika was almost glad that this was so. Her anxiety was 
very great — she could not disguise from herself that 
Thelma’s life was in danger, — and both she and Yaldemar 
wrote to Sir Philip Errington, preparing him for the 
worst, and urging him to come at once, — little aware that 
the very night the lifeless child was born, was the same on 
which he had started from Hull for Christiansund, after his 
enforced waiting for the required steamer. There was 
nothing more to be done now, thought Ulrika piously, but 
to trust in the Lord and hope for the best. And Yaldemar 
Svensen made with his own hands a tiny coffin for the body 
of the little dead boy who was to have brought such pride 
and satisfaction to his parents, and one day rowed it 
across the Fjord to that secret cave where Thelma’s mother 
lay enshrined in stone. There he left it, feeling sure he had 
done well. 

Ulrika asked him no questions — she was entirely ab- 
sorbed in the duties that devolved upon her, and with an 
ungrudging devotion strange to see in her, watched and 
tended Thelma incessantly, scarcely allowing herself a min- 
ute’s space for rest or food. The idea that her present min- 
istration was to save her soul in the sight of the Lord, had 
grown upon her, and was now rooted firmly in her mind — 
she never gave way to fatigue or inattention, — every moan, 
every restless movement of the suflfering girl, obtained her 
instant and tender solicitude, and when she pra3"ed now, it 
was not for herself but for Thelma. 

“ Spare her, good Lord ! ” she would implore in the 
hyperbolical language she had drawn from her study of the 
Scriptures — “ As the lily among thorns, so is she among 
the daughters I C ut her not off root and branch from the 
land of the living, for her countenance is cornel}", and as a 
bunch of myrrh which hath a powerful sweetness, even so 
must she surely be to the heart of her husband I Stretch 
forth Thy right hand, O Lord, and scatter healing, for the 
gates of death shall not prevail against Th}" power I ” 

Day after day she poured out petitions such as these, and 
with the dogged persistency of a soldier serving Cromwell, 
believed that they would be granted, — though day after 
day Thelma seemed to grow weaker and weaker. She was 


fHE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW'. 


503 


still light-headed — her face grew thin and shadowy, — hef 
hands were almost transparent in their whiteness and 
delicacy, and her voice was so faint as to be nearly in- 
audible. Sometimes Ulrika got frightened at her appear- 
ance, and heartily wished for medical assistance but this 
was not to be had. Therefore she was compelled to rely on 
the eflicacy of one simple remedy, — a herbal drink to allay 
fever, — the virtues of which she had been taught in her 
youth, — this, and the healing mercies of mother Nature to- 
gether with the reserved strength of her own constitution, 
were the threads on which Thelma's life hung. 

Time passed on — and yet there was no news from Sir 
Philip. One night, sitting beside her exhausted patient, 
Ulrika fancied she saw a change on the wan face — a softer, 
more peaceful look than had been there for many days. 
Half in fear, half in hope, she watched, — Thelma seemed to 
sleep, — but presently her large blue eyes opened with a 
calm yet wondering expression in their clear depths. She 
turned slightly on her pillows, and smiled faintly. 

“ Have I been ill ? ” she asked. 

“ Yes, my dear,” returned Ulrika softly, overjoyed, yet 
afraid at the girl’s returning intelligence. “ Very ill. But 
you feel better now, don’t you ? ” 

Thelma sighed, and raising her little wasted hand, ex- 
amined it curiously. Her wedding and betrothal rings were 
so Ipose on her finger that they would have fallen off' had 
they been held downwards. She seemed surprised at this, 
but made no remark. For some time she remained quiet, 
— steadfastly gazing at Ulrika, and evidently trying to 
make out who she was. Presently she spoke again. 

1 remember everything now,” she said, slowly. “ I 
am at home, at the Altenfjord — and I know how I came — • 
and also why I came.” Here her lips quivered. “ And I 
shall see my father no more, for he has gone — and I am all 
— all alone in the world ! ” She paused — then added, “ Do 
3^011 think I am d^dng ? If so, I am very glad ! ” 

“ Hush my dear ! ” said Ulrika. “ You mustn’t talk in 

that way. Your husband is coming presently ” she 

broke off suddenly, startled at the look of utter despair in 
Thelma’s eyes. 

“ You are wrong,” she replied wearily". “ He will not 
come — he cannot ! He does not want me any more 1 ” 

And two large tears rolled slowly down her pale cheeks. 
Ulrika wondered, but forebore to pursue the subject further. 


504 


THELMA. 


fearing to excite or distress her, — and contented herself foi 
the present with attending to her patient’s bodily needs. 
She went to the fire, and began to pour out some nourishing 
soup, which she always had there in readiness, — and while 
she was thus engaged, Thelma’s brain cleared more and 
more, — till with touching directness, and a new hope flush- 
ing her face, she asked softly and beseechingly for her 
child. “ I forgot I ” she said simply and sweetly. “ Of 
course I am not alone any more. Do give me my baby 
— I am much better — nearly well — and I should like to 
kiss it.” 

Ulrika stood mute, taken aback by this demand. She 
dared not tell her the truth — she feared its effect on the 
sensitive mind that had so lately regained its balance. But 
while she hesitated, Thelma instinctively guessed all she 
strove to hide. 

“ It is dead I ” she cried. “ Dead I — and I never knew ! ” 

And, burying her golden head in her pillows, she broke 
into a passion of convulsive sobbing. Ulrika grew posi- 
itively desperate at the sound, — what was she to do ? Every- 
thing seemed to go against her — she was inclined to cry 
herself. She embraced the broken-hearted girl, and tried 
to soothe her, but in vain. The long delirium and subse- 
quent weakness, — combined with the secret trouble on her 
mind, — had deprived poor Thelma of all resisting power, 
and she wept on and on in Ulrika’s arms till nature was 
exhausted, and she could weep no longer. Then she lay 
motionless, with closed eyes, utterly drained in body and 
spirit, scarcely breathing, and, save for a shivering moan 
that now and then escaped her, she seemed almost insensi- 
ble. Ulrika watched her with darkening, meditative brows, 
— she listened to the rush of the storm-wind without, — it 
was past eleven o’clock at night. She began to count on 
her fingers— it was the sixteenth day since the birth of the 
child, — sixteen days exactly since she had written to Sir 
Philip Errington, informing him of his wife’s danger — and 
the danger was not 3^et past. Thinking over all that had 
happened, and the apparent hopelessness cf the case, she 
suddenly took a strange idea into her head. Retiring to a 
distant corner, she dropped on her knees. 

“ 0 Lord, God Almighty ! ” she said in a fierce whisper, 
‘‘ Behold, I have been Thy servant until now ! I have 
wrestled with Thee in prayer till I am past all patience ! If 
Thou wilt not hear m^^ petition, why callest Thou Thyself 


THE LAND OE THE LONG SHADOW. 


505 


good ? Is it good to ernsli tlie already fallen ? Is it good 
to have no mercy on the sorrowful ? Wilt Thou condemn 
the innocent without reason ? If so, thou art not the Holy 
One I imagined ! Send forth Thy power now — now, while 
there is time ! Rescue her that, is l^’ing under the shadow 
of death — for how has she offended Thee that she should 
die ? Dela}^ no longer, or how shall I put m3" trust in Thee ? 
Send help speedily from Thine everlasting haljitations — or, 
behold I I do forsake Thee — and 1113" soul shall seek else- 
where for Eternal Justice I ” 

As she finished this extraordinaiy, half-threatening, and 
entirel3" blasphemous petition, the boisterous gale roared 
wildly round the house joining in chorus wuth the stormy 
dash of waves upon the coast — a chorus that seemed to 
Ulrika’s ears like the sound of fiendish and derisive 
laughter. 

She stood listening, — a trifle scared — 3"et with a sort of 
fanatical defiance written on her face, and she w\aited in sul- 
len patience evidently expecting an immediate answer to 
her outrageous i)ra3^er. She felt somewhat like a demagogue 
of the people, who boldl3" menaces an all-powerful sovereign, 
even while in dread of instant execution. There was a 
sharp patter of sleet on the window, — she glanced nervously 
at Thelma, who, perfectly still on her couch, looked more 
like a white, recumbent statue than a living woman. The 
wind shook the doors, and whistled shril^" through the 
crevices, — then, as though tired of its own wrath, surged 
away in hoarse murmurs over the tops of the creaking 
pines towards the Fjord, and there was a short, impressive 
silence. 

Ulrika still waited — almost holding her breath in expec- 
tation of some divine manifestation. The brief stillness 
grew unbearable .... Hush! What was that ! Jingle — 
jangle — ^jingle — ^jangle! — Bells! Sledge bells tinkling 
musically and merrily — and approaching swiftly, nearer — 
nearer! Now the sharp trotting roofs on the hard snow — 
then a sudden slackening of speed — the little metallic 
chimes rang slower and 3"et more slowty, till with a decisive 
and melodious clash the3" stopped ! 

Ulrika’s heart beat thickl3' — her face flushed— she ad- 
vanced to Thelma’s bedside, hoi)ing, fearing, — she knew not 
what. There was a tread of firm, yet hurried, footsteps 
without — a murmur of subdued voices — a half-suppressed 
exclamation of surprise and relief from Valdemarj — and 


mELMA. 


5oa 

then the door of the room was hastily thrown open, and a 
man’s tall figure, draped in what seemed to be a garment 
of frozen snowflakes, stood on the threshold. The noise 
startled Thelma — she opened her beautiful, tired, blue eyes. 
Ah ! what a divine rapture, — what a dazzling wonder and 
joy flashed into them, giving them back their old lustre of 
sunlight sparkling on azure seal She sprang up in her 
bed and stretched out her arms. 

“ Philip ! ” she cried sobbingly. “ Philip ! oh my dar- 
ling ! Tr}^ — try to love me again 1 . . . just a little I — be- 
fore 1 die ! ” 

As she spoke she was clasped to his breast, — folded to his 
heart in that strong, jealous, passionate embrace with 
which we who love, would fain shield our nearest and dear- 
est from even the shadow of evil — his lips closed on hers, — 
and in the sacred stillness that followed, Ulrika slipped 
from the room, leaving husband and wife alone together. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“ I have led her home, my love, my only friend ; 

There is none like her, none ! 

And never yet so warmly ran my blood, 

And sweetly on and on. 

Calming itself to the long-wished-for end. 

Full to the banks, close on the promised good.” 

Tennyson. 

Britta was in the kitchen, dragging off her snow-wet 
cloak and fur mufflers, and ciying heartily all the while. 
The stalwart Svenson stood looking at her in perplexity, 
now and then uttering a word of vague sympathy and con- 
' solation, to w^hich she paid not the slighest heed. The poor 
girl was tired out, and half-numb with the piercing cold, — 
the excitement which had kept her up for da3’^s and days, 
had yielded to the nervous exhaustion, which was its 
natural result, — and she kept on weeping without exactly 
knowing why she wept. Throughout the long and fatiguing 
journey she had maintained unflinching energy and perse- 
verence, — undaunted by storm, sleet, and darkness, she had 
driven steadily over long miles of trackless snow — her im 
stinct had guided her by the shortest and quickest routes — 
she seemed to know every station and village on the way, — ■ 
she alwaj^s managed to obtain relays of reindeer just when 


fSE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


507 

they were needed, — in short, Errington would hardly have 
been able to reach the Altenfjord without her. 

He had never realized to its full extent her strong, in- 
domitable, devoted character, till he saw her hour after 
hour seated beside him in the pulkha^ her hands tightly 
gripping the reins of the horned animals, whose ways she 
understood and perfectly controlled, — her bright, bird-like 
eyes fixed with watchful eagerness on the bewildering white 
landscape that opened out incessantly before her. Her 
common sense was never at fault — she forgot nothing — and 
with gentle but respectful firmness she would insist on Sir 
Philip’s taking proper intervals of rest and refreshment at 
the difierent farms they passed on their road, though he, 
eager to press on, chafed and fretted at every little delay. 
They were welcomed all along their route with true Norse 
hospitality, though the good country-folk who entertained 
them could not refrain from astonishment at the idea of 
their having undertaken such a journey at such a season, 
and appeared to doubt the possibility of their reaching 
their destination at all. And now that they had reached it 
in safety, Britta’s strength gave way. Valdemar Svensen 
had hastily blurted out the news of the bonders death even 
while she and Sir Philip were alighting from their sledge — 
and in the same breath had told them of Thelma’s danger- 
ous illness. What wonder, then, that Britta sobbed hys- 
terically, and refused to be comforted, — what wonder that 
she turned upon Ulrika as that personage approached, in a 
burst of unreasonable anger. 

“ Oh dear, oh dear ! ” she cried, “ to think that the 
Broken should be so ill — almost dying I and have nobody 
but you to attend to her ! ” 

This, with a vindictive toss of the brown curls. Ulrika 
winced at her words — she was hurt, but she answered 
gently— 

“ I have done my best,” she said with a sort of grave 
pathos, “ I have been with her night and day — had she 
be.en a daughter of my own blood, I know not how I could 
have served her with more tenderness. And, surely, it has 
been a sore and anxious time with me also — for I, too, have 
learned to love her I ” 

Her set mouth quivered, — and Britta, seeing her emotion, 
was ashamed of her first hasty speech. She made an act of 
contrition at once by putting her arms round Ulrika’s neck 
and kissing her — a })roceeding which so much astonished 


508 


TBELMA. 


that devout servant of Luther, that her dull eyes filled with 
tears. 

“ Forgive me ! ” said the impetuous little maiden. “ 1 
was very rude and very unkind 1 But if you love the 
Froken, you will understand how I feel — how I wish I 
could have helped to take care of her. And oh I the 
boride ! ” — here she gave way to a fresh burst of tears — 
“the dear, good, kind, brave bondel That he should be 
dead ! — oh I it is too cruel — too dreadful — I can hardly be- 
lieve it I ” 

Ulrika patted her consolingly on the shoulder, but said 
nothing — and Yaldemar sighed. Britta sought for her 
handkerchief, and dried her eyes — but, after a minute, began 
to cry again as recklessly as ever. 

“ And now ” — she gasped — “ if the Frdken — dies — I will 
die too. 1 will — ou see if I don’t I I w-w-wonH live — 
without her ! ” 

And such a big sob broke from her heaving bosom that 
it threatened to burst her trimly laced little bodice. 

“ She will not die,” said Ulrika decisively. “ I have had 
my fears — but the crisis is passed. Do not fret, Britta — 
there is no longer any danger. Her husband’s love will lift 
the trouble from her heart — and strength will return more 
speedily than it left her.” 

And turning a little aside on the pretence of throwing 
more wood on the fire, she muttered inaudiblj^, “ O Lord, 
verily thou hast done well to grant m3" just demand I Even 
for this will I remain Thy servant for ever 1 ” After this 
parenthesis, she resumed the conversation, — Yaldemar 
Svensen sitting silently apart, — and related all that had 
happened since Thelma’s arrival at the Altenfjord. She 
also gave an account of Lovisa Elsland’s death, — though 
Britta was not much affected by the loss of her grand- 
mother. 

“ Dreadful old thing! ” she said with a shudder. “ I’m ' 
glad I wasn’t with her 1 I remember how she cursed the 
Froken, — perhaps her curse has brought all the trouble — 
if so, it’s a good thing she’s dead, for now everything will 
come right again. I used to fancy she had some crime to 
confess, — did she say anything wicked when she was 
dying ? ” 

Ulrika avoided a direct reply to this question. What 
was the good of horrifying the girl b}" telling her that her 
deceased relative was to all intents and purposes a murderess f 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


509 


She resolved to let the secret of old Lovisa’s life remain 
buried with her. Therefore she simply answered — 

“ Her mind wandered greatl}^, — it was difficult to hear 
her last words. But it should satisfy 3’ou, Britta, to know 
that she passed away in the fear of the Lord.” 

Britta gave a little half-dubious, half-scornful smile. She 
had not the slightest belief in the sincerity of her late 
grandmother’s religious principles. 

“ I don’t understand people who are so much afraid of 
the Lord,” she said. “ They must have done something 
wrong. If you alwa3"S do your best, and try to be good, 
you needn’t fear anything. At least, that’s my opinion.” 

“ There is the everlasting burning,” began Ulrika 
solemnly. 

“ Oh, nonsense I ” exclaimed Britta quite impatiently. “ I 
don’t believe it ! ” 

Ulrika started back in wonder and dismay. “ You don’t 
believe it I ” she said in awed accents. “ Are you also a 
heathen ? ” 

“ I don’t know what ,you mean by a heathen,” replied 
Britta almost gaily. “ But I can’t believe that God, wdio 
is so good, is going to everlastingly burn anybody. He 
couldn’t., you know I It would hurt Him so much to see 
poor creatures writhing about in flames for ever — ive would 
not be able to bear it, and I’m quite sure it would make 
Him miserable even in heaven. Because He is all Love — 
He says so, — He couldn’t be cruel ! ” 

This frank statement of Britta’s views presented such a 
new form of doctrine to Ulrika’s heavy mind that she was 
almost appalled by it. God couldn’t burn anybody for 
ever — He was too good I What a daring ideal And yet 
so consoling — so wonderful in the infinite prospect of hope 
it offered, that she smiled, — even while she trembled to con- 
template it. Poor soul ! She talked of heathens — being 
herself the worst type of heathen — namely, a Christian 
heathen. This sounds incongruous — yet it may be taken for 
granted that those who profess to follow Christianity, and 
yet make of God, a being malicious, revengeful, and of more 
evil attributes than they possess themselves, — are as bar- 
barous, as unenlightened, as hopelessly sunken in slavish 
ignorance as the lowest savage who adores his idols of mud 
and stone. Britta was quite unconscious of having said 
anything out of. the common — she was addressing herself to 
Sveuscn, 


510 


THELMA. 


Where is the honde buried, Yaldemar ?” she asked in a 
low tone. 

He looked at her with a strange, mysterious smile. 

“ Buried ? Do you suppose his body could mix itself 
with common earth? No! — he sailed away, Britta — away 
—yonder ! ” 

And he pointed out through the window to the Fjord now 
invisible in the deep darkness. 

Britta stared at him with roundly opened, frightened 
eyes — her face paled. 

“ Sailed away ? You must be dreaming 1 Sailed away 1 
How could he — if he was dead ? ” 

A^aldemar grew suddenly excited. “ I tell you, he sailed 
away 1 ” he repeated in a low, hoarse whisper. “ Where is 
his ship, the Valkyrie ? Try if you can find it anywhere — 
on sea or land ! It has gone, and he has gone with it- — like 
a king and warrior — to glory, joy, and victory 1 Glory — ^joy 
— victory ! — those were his last words 1 ” 

Britta retreated, and caught Ulrika by the arm. “ Is he 
mad ? ” she asked fearfully. 

Yaldemar heard her, and rose from his chair, a pained 
smile on his face. 

“ I am not mad, Britta,” he said gently. “ Do not be 
afraid ! If grief for my master could have turned my brain, 
I had been mad ere this, — but I have all my wits about me, 
and I have told you the truth.” He paused — then added, 
in a more ordinary tone, “ You will need fresh logs of pine 
■ — I will go and bring them in.” 

And he went out. Britta gazed after him in speechless 
wonder. 

“ What does he mean ? ” she asked. 

“ What he says,” returned Ulrika composedly. “ You, 
like» others, must have known that Olaf Giildmar’s creed 
was a strange one — his burial has been strange — that is all I ” 

And she skillfully turned the conversation, and began to 
talk of Thelma, her sorrows and sufferings. Britta was 
most impatient to see her beloved “ Broken/' and quite 
grudged Sir Philip the long time he remained alone with 
his wife. 

“ He might call me, if only for a moment,” Britta thought 
plaintively. “ I do so want to look at her dear face again 1 
But men are all alike — as long as they’ve got what they 
want, they never think of anybody else. Dear me ! I won- 
der how long I shall have to wait ! ” So she fumed and fret* 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


511 


ted, and eat by the kitchen-fire, drinking hot tea and talking 
to Ulrika — all the while straining her ears for the least 
sound or movement from the adjoining room. But none 
came — there was the most perfect silence. At last she 
could endure it no longer — and, regardless of Ulrika’s re- 
monstrances, she stole on tip-toe to the closed door that 
barred her from the sight of her heart’s idol, and turning 
the handle softly, opened it and looked in. Sir Philip saw 
her, and made a little w^arning sign, though he smiled. 

He was sitting by the bedside, and in his arms, nestled 
against his shoulder, Thelma rested. She was fast asleep. 
The lines of pain had disappeared from her SAveet face — a 
smile Avas on her lips — her breath came and went with 
peaceful regularity, — and the delicate hue of a pale rose 
fiushed her cheeks. Britta stood gazing on this fair sight 
till her afifectionate little heart overflowed, and the ready 
tears dropped like diamonds from her curl^^ lashes. 

“ Oh, my dear — my dear 1 ” she Avhispered in a sort of 
rapture when there was a gentle moAxment, — and tAvo star- 
like eyes opened like blue flowers outspreading to the sun. 

“ Is that you, Britta?” asked a tender, wondering voice — 
and Avith a smothered cry of ecstacy, Britta sprang to seize 
the outstretched hand of her beloved Frbken, and cover it 
with kisses. And while Thelma laughed with pleasure to 
see her, and stroked her hair. Sir Philip described their 
long drive through the snoAV,and so Avarmly praised Britta’s 
patience, endurance, and constant clieerhilness, that his 
voice trembled with its own earnestness, while Britta grew 
rosily red in her deep shyness and embarrassment, ve- 
hemently protesting that she had done nothing, — nothing at 
all to deserve so much commendation. Then, after much 
glad converse, Ulrika was called, and Sir Philip seizing her 
hand, shook it with such force and fervor that she Avas quite 
overcome. 

“ I don’t know hoAv to thank you I ” he said, his eyes 
sparkling with gratitude, “ It’s impossible to repay such 
goodness as yours ! My wife tells me how tender and pa- 
tient and devoted you have been — that even when she knew 
nothing else, she was aware of your kindness. God bless 
you for it ! You have saved her life ” 

“ Ah, yes, indeed ! ” interrupted Thelma gently. “ And 
life has grown so glad for me again ! I do owe you so 
much.” 

“ You owe me nothing,” said Ulrika in those harsh, mo- 


512 


THELMA. 


notonous tones which she had of late learned to modulate. 
“ Nothing. The debt is all on my side.” She stopped ab- 
ruptly — a dull red color flushed her face — her eyes dwelt on 
Thelma with a musing tenderness. 

Sir Philip looked at her in some surprise. 

“ Yes,” she went on. “ The debt is all on my side. Hear 
me out, Sir Philip — and you too, — you ‘ rose of the north- 
ern forest,’ as Sigurd used to call you I You have not for- 
gotten Sigurd ? ” 

Forgotten him ? ” said Thelma softly. “ Never ! . . . I 
loved him too well ! ” 

Ulrika’s head dropped. “ He was my son I ” she said. 

There was a silence of complete astonishment. Ulrika 
paused — then, as no one uttered a word, she, looked up 
boldly, and spoke with a sort of desperate determination. 

“ You see you have nothing to thank me for,” she went 
on, addressing herself to Sir Philip, while Thelma, leaning 
back on her pillows, and holding Britta’s hand, regarded 
her with a new and amazed interest. “ Perhaps, if 3^011 had 
known what sort of a woman I am, 3^011 might not have 
liked me to come near — /?cr.” And she motioned towards 

Thelma. “ When 1 was young — long ago — I loved ” 

she laughed bitterly. “ It seems a strange thing to say, 
does it not ? Let it pass — the story of 1113^ love, my sin and 
shame, need not be told here !' But Sigurd was 1113^ child — 
born in an evil hour — and I — I strove to kill him at his 
birth.” 

Thelma uttered a faint cry of horror. Ulrika turned an 
imploring gaze upon her. 

“ Don't hate me ! ” she said, her voice trembling. “ Don’t, 
for God’s sake, hate me I You don’t know what I have 
suffered I I was mad, I think, at the time — I flung the 
child in the Fjord to drown ; — 3^0111’ father, Olaf Giildmar, 
rescued him. I never knew that till long after; — for 3'ears 
the crime I had committed weighed upon 1113^ soul, — I pra3’ed 
and strove with the Lord for pardon, but alwa3"s, alwa3"s 
felt that for me there was no forgiveness. Lovisa Elsland 
used to call me “ murderess ; ” she was right — I ims one, 
or so I thought — till — till that day I met 3^011, Frbken 
Thelma, on the hills with Sigurd, — and the lad fought with 
me.” She shuddered, — and her e3'es looked wild. “ I 
recognized him — no matter how! ... he bore m3^ mark 
upon him — he was my son — mine! — the deformed, crazy 


THE land of The long SHADOW. 


513 


creature who yet had wit enough to love you — ^you, whom 
then 1 hated — but now ” 

She stopped and advanced a little closer to Thelma’s bed- 
side. 

“ Now, there is nothing I would not do for you, my 
dear I ” she said very gently. “ But you will not need me any 
more. You understand what you have done for me, — you 
and your father ? You have saved me by saving Sigurd, — 
saved me from being weighed down to hell with the crime 
of murder ! And you made the boy happy while he lived. 
All the rest of my days spent in your service could not pay 
back the worth of that good deed. And most heartily do I 
thank the Lord that lie has mercifully permitted me to tend 
and comfort you in the hour of trouble — and, moreover, 
that He has given me strength to speak and confess my sin 
and unworthiness before you ere I depart. For now the 
trouble is past, I must remove my shadow from your joy. 
God bless you ! — and — try to think as kindly as you can of 
me for — for Sigurd’s sake I ” 

Stooping, she kissed Thelma’s hand, — and, before any 
one had time to speak a word, she left the room abruptly. 

When, in a few minutes, Britta went to look after her, 
she was gone. She had departed to her own house in 
Bosekop, where she obstinately remained. Nothing w^oiild 
induce her to present herself again before Sir Philip or 
Thelma, and it was not till many days after they had left 
the AltenQord that she was once more seen about the 
village. And then she was a changed being. No longer 
harsh or forbidding in manner, she became humble and 
gentle, — she ministered to the sick, and consoled the 
afflicted — but she was especially famous for her love of 
children. All the little ones of the place knew her, and 
were attracted by her, — and the time came when Ulrika, 
white-haired, and of peaceful countenance, could be seen 
knitting at her door in the long summer afternoons sur- 
rounded by a whole army of laughing, chattering, dimpled 
youngsters, who would play at hide-and-seek behind her 
chair, and clamber up to kiss her wrinkled cheeks, putting 
their chubby arms round her neck with that guileless con- 
fidence children show only to those whom they feel can ap- 
preciate such flattering attentions. Some of her acquaint- 
ance were wont to say that she was no longer the “ godly ” 
Ulrika — but however this might be, it is certain she had 
drifted a little nearer to the Author of all godliness, which, 


514 


THELMA. 


— after all, — is the most we dare to strive for in all our 
differing creeds. 

It was not long before Thelma began to reco . er. The day 
after her husband arrived, and Ulrika departed, she rose 
from her bed with Britta’s assistance, and sat by the blazing 
fire, wrapped in her white gown and looking very fragile, 
though very lovely. Philip had been talking to her for 
some time, and now he sat at her feet, holding her hand in 
his, and watching her face, on which there was an expres- 
sion of the most plaintive and serious penitence. 

“ I have been very wicked ! ” she said, with such a quaint 
horror of herself that her husband laughed. “ Now I look 
back upon it all, I think I have behaved so very badly I 
because I ought never to have doubted you, my boy — no — 
not for all the Lady Winsleighs in the world. And poor 
Mr. Neville! he must be so unhappy! But it was that 
letter — that letter in your own writing, Philip 1 ” 

“ Of course ! ” he answered soothingly. “ No wonder 
you thought me a dreadful fellow ! But you won’t do so 
again, will you, Thelma ? You will believe that you are 
the crown and centre of my life — the joy of all the world 
to me ? ” 

“ Yes, I will 1 ” she said softly and proudly. “ Though 
it is always the same, I never do think myself worthy I 
But I must try to grow very conceited, and assure myself 
that I am very valuable ! so that then I shall understand 
ever^Thing better, and be wiser.” 

Philip laughed. ‘‘ Talking of letters,” he said suddenly, 
“ here’s one I wrote to you from Hull — it only got here to- 
day. Where it has been delayed is a mystery. You 
needn’t read it — ^you know everything in it alread}^ Then 
there’s a letter on the shelf up there addressed in your 
writing — it seems never to have been opened.” 

He reached it down, and gave it to her. As she took it, 
her face grew very sad. 

“ It is the one I wrote to my father before I left Lon- 
don,” she said. And her eyes filled with tears. . “ It came 
too late I ” 

“ Thelma,” said Sir Philip then, very gently and gravely, 
“ would you like — can you bear — to read your father’s last 
words to you ? He wrote to you on his death-bed, and gave 
the letter to Valdemar ” 

“ Oh, let me see it ! ” she murmured half-sobbingly. 
‘‘ Father, — dear father I I knew he would not leave me 
without a word ! ” ^ 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW. 


515 


Sir Philip reverently opened the folded paper -which Sven, 
sen had committed to his care that morning, and together 
they read the bonders farewell. It ran as follows : — 

Thelma, my Beloved, 

“ The summons I have waited for has come 
at last, and the doors of Valhalla are set open to receive m^'- 
soul. Wonder not that I depart with joy 1 Old as I am, 
I long for youth — the everlasting youth of w^hich the 
strength and savor fails not. I have lived long enough to 
know the sameness of this world — though there is much 
therein to please the heart and eye of a man — hut with that 
roving restlessness that was born within me, I desire to sail 
new seas and gaze on new lands, where a perpetual light 
shines that knows no fading. Grieve not for me — thou 
■v\dlt remember that, unlike a Christian, I see in death the 
chiefest glory of life — and thou must not regret that I am 
eager to drain this cup of world-oblivion offered by the 
gods. I leave thee, — not sorrowfully, — for thou art in 
shelter and safety — the strong protection of thy husband’s 
love defends thee and the safeguard of thine own innocence. 
My blessing upon him and thee ! Serve him, Thelma 
mine, with full devotion and obedience — even as I have 
taught thee, — thus drawing from thy womanJife its best 
measure of sweetness, — kee^:) the bright shield of thy truth 
untarnished — and live so that at the hour of thine own 
death-ecstas}^ thou mayest depart as easily as a song-bird 
soaring to the sun I I pass hence in Happiness — if thou 
dost shed a tear thou wrongest my memory, — there is 
naught to weep for. Yaldemar will give me the crimson 
shroud and ocean grave of my ancestors — but question him 
not concerning this fiery pomp of my last voyage — he is 
but a serf, and his soul is shaken to its very depths by sor- 
row. Let him be — he will have his reward hereafter. And 
now farewell, child of my heart — darling of mine age — • 
clear mirror in which my later life has brightened to con- 
tent I All partings are brief — we shall meet again — thou 
and I and Philip — and all who have loved or who love each 
other, — the journey heavenwards may be made by different 
roads, but the end — the glory — the immortality is the samel 
Peace be upon thee and on thy children and on thy chil- 
dren’s children I 

Thy father, 

“ Olaf GCldmar.’^ 


516 


THELMA. 


in spite of the brave old pagan’s declaration that tears 
would wrong his memory, they dropped bright and fast 
from his daughter’s e3^es as she kissed again and again the 
words his dying hand had pencilled, — while Errington knew 
not which feeling gained the greater mastery over him, — 
grief for a good man’s loss, or admiration for the strong, 
heroic spirit in which that good man had welcomed Death 
v/ith rejoicing. He could not help comparing the bonders 
departure from this life with that of Sir Francis Lennox, 
liie man of false fashion, who had let slip his withered soul 
with an oath into the land of Nowhere. Presently Thelma 
grew calmer, and began to speak in hushed, soft tones — 

“ Poor Yaldemar I ” she said meditatively. “ His heart 
must ache very much, Philip I ” 

Philip looked up inquiringly. 

“ You see, my father speaks of the ‘ crimson shroud,’ ’’ 
she w'ent on. “ That means that he was buried like many 
of the ancient Norwegian sea kings ; — he was taken from 
his bed while dying and placed on board his own ship to 
breathe his last ; then the ship was set on fire and sent out 
to sea. 1 always knew he wished it so. Yaldemar must 
have done it all — for I, — I saw the last glimpse oi the 
flames on the Fjord the night I came home I Oh, Philip 1 
and her beautiful e^^es rested tenderly upon him, it was 
all so dreadful — so desolate ! I wanted — I prayed to die 
also ! The world was so empty — it seemed as if there was 
nothing left I ” 

Philip, still sitting at her feet, encircled her with both 
arms, and drew her down to him. 

“ My Thelma I ” he whispered, “ there is nothing left — 
nothing at all worth living for, — save Love I 

“ Ah I but that,” she answered softly, is everything I ” 

* * * sK * 

Is it so, indeed ? Is Love alone worth living for — worth 

dying for ? Is it the only satisfying good we can grasp at 
among the shifting shadows of our brief existence ? In its 
various phases and different workings, is it, after all, the 
brightest radiance known in the struggling darkness of our 
lives? 

Sigurd had thought so, — he had died to prove it. Philip 
thought so, — when once more at home in England with his 
recovered “ treasure of the golden midnight ” he saw her, 
like a rose refreshed by rain, raise her bright hsad in re« 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW 


517 


newed strength and beauty, with the old joyous lustre 
dancing in her eyes, and the smile of a perfect happiness 
like summer sunshine on her fair face. Lord Winsleigh 
thought so ; — he was spending the winter in Rome with his 
wife and son, — and there among the shadows of the Cmsars, 
his long, social martyrdom ended, and he regained what he 
had once believed lost for ever — his wife’s affection. Clara, 
gentle, wistful, with the softening shadow of a great sorrow 
and a great repentance in her once too-brilliant eyes, was a 
very different Clara to the dashing “ beauty ” who had fig- 
ured so conspicuously in London society. She clung to 
her husband with an almost timid eagerness as though she 
dreaded losing him — and when he was not with her, she 
seemed to rely entirely on her son, whom she watched with 
a fond, almost melancholy pride, and who responded to her 
tenderness though proffered so late, with the full-hearted 
frankness of his impulsive, ardent nature. She wrote to 
Thelma asking her pardon, and in return received such a 
sweet, forgiving, generous letter as caused her to weep for 
an hour or more. But she felt she could never again meet 
the clear regard of those beautiful, earnest, truthful eyes — 
never again could she stand in Thelma’s presence, or call 
her friend — that was all over. Still Love remained, — a 
Love, chastened and sad, with dropping wings and a some- 
what doubting smile, — yet it was Love — 

“ Love, that keeps all the choir of lives in chime — 

Love, that is blood within the veins of time.” 

And Love, no matter how abused and maltreated, is a 
very patient god, and even while suffering from undeserved 
wounds, still works on, doing magical things. So that 
poor Edward Neville, the forsaken husband of Violet Vere, 
when he heard that that popular actress had died suddenly 
in America from a fit of delirium tremens brought on by 
excessive drinking, was able, by some gentle method known 
only to Love and himself, to forget all her frailties — to ob- 
literate from his memory the fact that he ever saw her on 
the boards of the Brdliant Theatre, — and to think of her 
lienceforth only as the wife he had once adored, and who, 
tie decided in vague, dreamy fashion, must have died 
young. Love also laid a firm hand on the vivacious Pierre 
Duprfez — he who had long scoffed at the jeu d' amours 
played it at last in grave earnest, — and one bright season 
he introduced his bride into Parisian society, — a charming 


518 


THELMA. 


little woman, with ver}^ sparkling e^^es and white teeth, 
who spoke French perfectly , though not with the“haccent” 
recommended by Briggs. It was difficult to recognize 
Britta in the petite elegante who laughed and danced and 
chattered her way through some of the best salons in Paris, 
captivating everybody as she went, — but there she was, all 
the same, holding her own as usual. Her husband was ex- 
tremely proud of her — he was fond of pointing her out to 
people as something excessively precious and unique — and 
saying — “See her! That is my wife I From Norway 1 
Yes — from the very utmost north of Norway 1 I love my 
country — certainly I — but I will tell you this much — if I 
had been obliged to choose a wife among French women—- 
ma foi ! I should never have married I ” 

And what of George Lorimer ? — the idle, somewhat care- 
less man of “ modern ” t3"pe, in whose heart, notwithstand- 
ing the supposed deterioration of the age, all the best and 
bravest codes of old-world chivalry, were written? Had 
Love no fair thing to offer him? Was he destined to live 
out his life in the silent heroism of faithful, unuttered, un- 
requited, unselfish devotion ? Were the heavens, as Sigurd 
had said, always to be empty ? Apparently not, — for when 
he was verging towards middle age, a young lady besieged 
him with her affections, and boldly offered to be his wife 
an}" day he chose to name. She was a small person, not 
quite five years old, with great blue eyes and a glittering 
tangle of golden curls. She made her proposal one sum- 
mer afternoon on the lawn at Errington Manor, in the 
presence of Beau Lovelace, on whose knee sat her little 
brother Olaf, a fine bo}" a year younger than herself. She 
had placed her dimpled arms round Lorimer’s neck, — and 
when she so confidingly suggested marriage to her 
“ Zordie,” as she call him, she was rubbing her ros}", 
velvety cheek against his moustache with much sweet con- 
sideration and tenderness. Lovelace, hearing her, laughed 
aloud, whereat the little lady was extremely offended. 

“ I don’t tare I ” she said, with pretty defiance. “ I do 
love oo, Zordie, and I will marry oo I ” 

George held her fondly to his breast as though she were 
some precious fragile flower of which not a petal must be 
injured. 

“ All right I ” he answered gaily, though his voice 
trembled somewhat, “ I accept 1 You shall be my little 
wife, Thelma. Consider it settled 1 ” 


THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW'. 


Si9 

Apparently she did so consider it, for from that day^ 
whenever she was asked her name, she announced herself 
proudly as “ Zordie’s ’ittle wife, Thelma ” — to the great 
amusement of her father. Sir Philip, and that other Thelma^ 
on whom the glory of motherhood had fallen like a new 
charm, investing both face and form with superior beauty 
and an almost divine serenity. But “ Zordie’s wife ” took 
her sobriquet very seriously, — so much so, indeed, that by- 
and-by “ Zordie ” began to take it rather seriously himself 
— and to wonder whether, after all, marriages, unequal in 
point of age, might not occasionally turn out well. He 
condemned himself severely for the romanticism of thinking 
such thoughts, even while he indulged in them, and called 
himself “ an old fool,” though he was in the actual prime of 
manhood, and an exceedingly handsome fellow withal. 

But when the younger Thelma came back at the age of 
sixteen from her convent school at Arles, — the same school 
where her mother had been before her, — she looked so like 
her mother, so very like, that his heart began to ache with 
the old, wistful, passionate longing he fancied he had stilled 
for ever. He struggled against this feeling for a while, till 
at last it became too strong for him, — and then, though he 
told himself it was absurd, — that a man past forty had no 
right to expect to win a girl’s first love, he grew so reck- 
less that he determined to risk his fate with her. One day, 
therefore, he spoke out, scarcely knowing what he said, and 
only conscious that his pulses were beating with abnormal 
rapidity. She listened to his tremulous, rather hesitating 
proposal with exceeding gravity, and appeared more sur- 
prised than displeased. Raising her glorious blue eyes — 
eyes in which her mother’s noble, fearless look was faith- 
fully reflected, she said simply, just in her mother’s own 
quaint way — 

“ I do not know why you talk about this at all. I thought 
it was all settled long ago ! ” 

“ Settled ! ” faltered Lorimer astonished, — he was gen- 
erally self-possessed, but this fair young lady’s perfect 
equanimity far surpassed his at that moment — “ Settled ! 
My darling 1 my child — I am so much older than you 
are ” 

“ I don’t like boys!'' she declared, with stately disdain. 
“ I was your wife when I was little — and I thought it was to 
be the same thing now I am big I I told mother so, and 


520 


THELMA. 


she was quite pleased. But of course, if you don’t want 


She was not allowed to finish her sentence, for Lorimer, 
with a sudden rush of joy that almost overpowered him, 
caught her in his arms and pressed the first lover’s kiss on 
her pure, innocently smiling lips. 

“ Want you I ” he murmured passionately, with a strange 
sweet mingling of the past and present in his words. “ 
have always wanted — Thelma I ” 




A. L. BURT’S PUBLICATIONS 

For Young People 

BY POPULAR WRITERS, 

97-99-101 Reade Street, New York. 


Bonnie Prince Charlie : A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. By 
G. A. Henty. With 12 full- page Illustrations by Cordon 
Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

The adventures of the son of a Scotch officer in Crench service. 
The boy, brought up by a Glasgow bailie, is arrested for aiding a 
Jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the French coast, reaches 
Paris, and serves with the French army at Dettingen. He kills^ 
his father’s foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the 
advent ires of Prince Charlie, but finally settles happily in Scot* 
land. 

“Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of ‘ Quentin Durward.’ The lad’s 
journey across France, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a nar- 
rative of the kind as we have ever read. For freshness of treatment and 
variety of incident Mr. Henty has surpassed himself. ”~<Specfafo7-. 

With Clive in India ; or, the Beginnings of an Empire. By 
G. A. Henty. With 12 full-page Illustrations by Gordon 
Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

The period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in 
India and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the 
extreme. At its commencement the English were traders existing 
on sufferance of the native princes. At its close they were masters 
of Bengal and of the greater part of Southern India. The author 
has given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring 
time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, 
while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adven- 
ture, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume. 

. “ He has taken a period of Indian history of the most vital importance, 

and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply 
interesting. Young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume.”— 
Scotsman. 

The Lion of the North ; A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the 
Wars of Religion. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illus- 
trations by John Schonberg. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

In this story Mr. Henty gives the history of the first part of the 
Thirty Years’ War. The issue had its importance, which has ex-*" 
tended to the present day, as it established religious freedom 
in Germany. The army of the chivalrous king of Sweden was 
largely composed of Scotchmen, and among thesp was the hero of 
the story. ^ 

“ The tale is h elever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be 
trusted to read iteonscientiouslyi) they can hardly fail to be profited- rcmea 


2 


A. L. BURT’S PUBLICATIONS. 


The Dragon and the Raven ; or, The Days of King Alfred. By 
G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. Stani* 
LAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 


In this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle 
between Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents J 
a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was 
reduced by the ravages’ of the sea- wolves. The hero, a young| 
Saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by King Alfred. 
He is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the Danes 
''on their ow'n element, and being pursued by them up the Seine^ 
Is present at the long and desperate siege of Paris. 

“ Treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader.”— At/iencewm. 


The Young Carthaginian : A Story of the Times of Hannibal. 

By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. Stani- 

LAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

Boys reading the history of the Punic Wars have seldom a keen 
appreciation of the merits of the contest. That it was at first a 
struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of 
Carthage, that Hannibal was a great and skillful general, that he 
defeated the Romans at Trebia, Lake Trasimenus, and Cannae, 
and all but took Rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of 
their knowledge. To let them know more about this momentous 
struggle for the empire of the world Mr. Henty has written this 
story, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant descrip- 
tion of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of ex- 
citing adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader. 

“Well constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing stays the 
interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a jstream whose current 
varies in direction, but never loses its tovcey— Saturday Review. 


In Freedom’s Cause : A Story of Wallace and Bruce. ByG. A. " 

Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. 

12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

In this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish 
War of Independence. The extraordinary valor and personal 
prowess of Wallace and Bruce rival the deeds of the mythical 
heroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time Wallace was ranked 
with these legendary personages. The researches of modern| 
historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing' 
man — and a valiant champion. The hero of the tale fought under 
both Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy 
has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is 
full of “hairbreadth ’scapes” and wild adventure. 

“ It is written in the author’s best style. Full of the wildest and most re- 
markable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has 
begun it. will not willingly put OO one side.”— Schoolmaster. 


A. L. BURT’S PUBLICATIONS. 




With Lee in Virginia: A Story of the American Civil War. By 

O. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Gordon 

Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

The story of a young Virginian planter, who, after bravely 
proving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves 
with no less courage and enthusiasm under Lee and Jackson 
through the most exciting events of the struggle. He has many 
hairbreadth escapes, is several times wounded and twice taken 
]irisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the 
devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had 
assisted, bring him safely througn all difficulties. 

“ One of the best stories for lads which Mr. Henty has yet written. The 
picture is full of life and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are 
skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story.” — 
Standard. 

By England’s Aid ; or. The Freeing of the Netherlands (1585- 

1604). By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by 

Alfred Pearse, and Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

The story of two English lads who go to Holland as pages in 
the service of one of “ the fighting Veres.” After many adven- 
tures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a 
Spanish ship at the time of the defeat of the Armada, and escapes 
only to fall into the hands of the Corsairs. He is successful in 
getting back to Spain under the protection of a wealthy merchant, 
and regains his native country aher the capture of Cadiz. 

“ It is an admirable book for youngsters. It overflows with stirring inci- 
dent and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the scene are 
finely reproduced. The illustrations add to its attractiveness.”— Boston 
Gazette. 

By Right of Conquest ; or. With Cortez in Mexico. By G. A. 

Henty. With full-page Illustrations by W. S. Stacey, and 

Two Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.50. 

The conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under 
the magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightly ranked 
among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. With 
this as the groundwork of his story Mr. Henty has interwoven the 
adventures of an English youth, Roger Hawkshaw, the sole sur- 
vivor of the good ship Swan, which had sailed from a Devon port 
to challenge the mercantile supremacy of the Spaniards in the 
New World. He is beset by many perils among the natives, but 
is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion 
of an Aztec princess. At last by a ruse he obtains the protection 
of the Spaniards, and after the fall of Mexico he succeeds in re- 
gaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming Aztec 
bride. 

“ ‘ By Right of Conquest ’ is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful 
historical tale that Mr. Henty has yet published.”— Accwiewy, 


4 


’ A. L. BURT’S PUBLICATIONS. 


In the Reign of Terror: The Adventures of a Westminster Boy. 

By G. A. Hentt. With full-page Illustrations by J. Sch6n- 

^ERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

Harry Sandwith, a Westminster boy, becomes a resident at the 
chateau of a French marquis, and aft^r various adventures accom- 
panies the family to Paris at the crisis of the Revolution. Im- 
prisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero f?ndg 
himself beset by perils with the three young daughters of the 
house in his charge. After hairbreadth escapes they reach an- 
tes. There the girls are condemned to death in the coffin-sh»pSf 
but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector. 

“Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat Mr. 
Henty’s record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril 
they depict. . . . The story is one of Mr. Henty’s best."— Saturday 
Review. 

With Wolfe in Canada ; or. The Winning of a Continent. By 

G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Gordon 

Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

In the present volume Mr. Henty gives an account of the strug- 
gle between Britain and France for supremacy in the North 
American continent. On the issue of this war depended not only 
the destinies of North America, but to a large extent those of the 
mother countries themselves. The fall of Quebec decided that 
the Anglo-Saxon race should predominate in the New World; 
that Britain, and not France, should take the lead among the 
nations of Europe; and that English and American commerce, the 
English language, and English literature, should spread right 
round the globe. 

“ It is not only a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, 
but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by 
flood and field .” — Illustrated London News. 

True to the Old Flag: A Tale of the American War of Inde- 
pendence. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by 
. Gordon Browne. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

I In this story the author has gone to the accounts of oflSccvi wh( 
took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in v\ hicli 
American and British soldiers have been engaged did they behave 
with greater courage and good conduct. The historical portion of 
'the book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures 
.with the redskins on the shores of LaUe Huron, a story of exciting 
) interest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried 
through the book. 

“ Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British soldiers during 
the unfortunate struggle against American emancipation. The son of an 
American loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile red* 
Bkins in that very Huron country which has b^n endeared to us by the ex* 
ploits of Hawkeye and Chingacugook.”— JTie Time*. 


A L. BURT’S PUBLICATIONS. 


5 


The Lion of St. Mark : A Tale of Venice in the Fourteenth 
Century. By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by 
Gordon Browne. l2mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

A story of Venice at a period when her strength and splendor 
were put to the severest tests. The hero displays a fine sense and 
manliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of in. 
trigue, crime, and bloodshed. He contributes largely to the vic- 
tories of the Venetians at Porto d’Anzo and Chioggia, and finally 
wins the hand of the daughter of one of the chief men of Venice 

‘ ‘ Every boy should read ‘ The Lion of St. Mark.’ Mr. Henty has never pro 
iuced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious.” — Satur- 
day ] teview. 

A Final Reckoning: A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. ByG A 
Henty. With full-page Illustrations by W. B. Wollen 
12mo, cloth, price $1.00, 

The hero, a young English lad. after rather a stormy boyhood, 
emigrates to Australia, and gets employment as an officer in the 
mounted police. A few years of active work on the frontier, 
where he has many a brush with both natives and bushrangers, 
gain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles 
down to the peaceful life of a squatter. 

“ Mr. Henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully con- 
structed, or a better written story than this "—Spectator. 

Under Drake’s Flag : A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G. A. 
Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. 
12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

A story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the 
supremacy of the sea. The heroes sail as lads with Drake in the 
Pacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. 
The historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon, 
but this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of 
exciting adventure through which the young heroes pass the 
course of their voyages. 

A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough, on J 
Would think, to turn his hair gray.” — Harper's Monthly Magazine. 

By Sheer Pluck : A Tale of the Ashanti War. ByG, A, Henty 

With full- page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. 12mo, 

cloth price $1 00. 

The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the de 
tails of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. 
His hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, is de- 
tained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war, 
but escapes, and accompanies the English expedition on their 
march to Coomassie. 

“ Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys’ stories. ‘ By Sheer 
Pluck ’ will be eagerly read.”— 


6 


A. L. BURT’S PUBLICATIONS. 


By Pike and Dyke : A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic. 
By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Maynard 
Brown, and 4 Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

In this story Mr. Henty traces the adventures and brave deeds 
of an English boy in the household of the ablest man of his age — ' 
William the Silent. Edward Martin, the son of an English sea- 
captain, enters the service of the Prince as a volunteer, and is em- 
ployed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the 
discharge of which he passes through the great sieges of the time. 
He ultimately settles down as Sir Edward Martin. 

“ Boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the book, 
while the rest who only care for adventure.will be students in spite of them= 
selves.” — St. James' Gazette. 

St. George for England : A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By 
G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Gordon 
Browne. 12mo. cloth, price $1.00. 

No portion of English history is more crowded with great events 
than that of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers; the 
destruction of the Spanish fleet; the plague of the Black Death; 
tbe Jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in “ St. 
George for England.” The hero of the story, although of good 
family, begins life as a London apprentice, but after countless ad. 
ventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire, 
and at last the trusted friend of the Black Prince. 

“ Mr. Henty has de veloped for himself a type of historical novel for bo> 
Which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labors of Sir 
Walter Scott in the land of fiction.”— r/ie Standard. 

Captain’s Kidd’s Gold : The True Story of an Adventurous Sailor 
Boy. By James Franklin Fitts. 12ino, cloth, price $1.00. 
There is something fascinating to the average youth in tlie very 
idea of buried treasure. A vision arises before his eyes of swarthy 
Portuguese and Spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming 
eyes — sinister-looking fellows who once on a time haunted the 
Spanish Main, sneaking out from some hidden creek in their long, 
low schooner, of picaroonisb rake and sheer, to attack an unsus- 
pecting trading craft. There were many famous sea rovers in 
their day, but none more celebrated than Capt. Kidd. Perhaps 
the most fascinating tale of all is Mr. Fitts’ true story of an£ dven 
turous American boy, who receives from his dying father an 
ancient bit of vellum, which the latter obtained in a curious way. 
The document bears obscure directions purporting to locate a cer-' 
tain island in the Bahama group, and a considerable treasure 
buried there by two of Kidd’s crew. The hero of this book, 
Paul Jones Garry, is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-watei 
New England ancestry, and his efforts to reach the island and 
secure the money form one of the most absorbing taios foJ* our 
youth that has come from the press. 


A. L. BURT’S PUBLICATIONS. 


7 


Captain Bayley’s Heir ; A Tale of the Gold Fields of California, 

By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. 
Paget. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

A frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in the heirship'of a 
considerable property. The former falls into a trap laid by the 
latter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves 
England for America. He works his passage before the mast, 
joins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested 
with Indians to the Californian gold diggings, and is successful 
both as digger and trader, , 

“Mr. Henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the" 
humorous touches, especially in the sketch of John Holl, the Westminster ' 
dustman, Dickens himself could hardly have excelled .” — Christian Leader. 

For Name and Fame ; or. Through Afghan Passes. By G. A. 

Henty. With full-page Illustrations by Gordon Browne. 

' 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

An intere^ iig story of the last war in Afghanistan. The hero, 
after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures 
among the Malays, finds his way to Calcutta and enlists in a regi- 
ment proceeding to join the army at the Afghan passes. He ac- 
companies the force under General Roberts to the Peiwar Kotal, 
is wounded, taken prisoner, carried to Cabul, whence he is trans- 
ferred to Candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army 
of Ayoub Kban. 

“ The best feature of the book— apart from the interest of its scenes of ad- 
venture- -is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the Afghan 
people.”— News. 

Captured by Apes : The Wonderful Adventures of a Young 

Animal Trainer. By Harry Prentice. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. 

The scene of this tale is laid on an island in the Malay Archi- 
pelago. Philip Garland, a young animal collector and trainer, of 
New York, sets sail for Eastern seas in quest of a new stock of 
living curiosities. The vessel is wrecked off the coast of Borneo 
and young Garland, the sole survivor of the disaster, is cast ashore 
on a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the 
place. The lad discovers that the ruling spirit of the monkey 
tribe is a gigantic and vicious baboon, whom he identifies as 
' Goliah, an animal at one time in his possession and with whose 
instruction he bad been especially diligent. Tbe brute recognizes 
him, and with a kind of malignant satisfaction puts his former 
master through the same course of training he had himself ex- 
perienced with a faithfulness of detail which shows how astonish- 
ing is monkey recollection. Very novel indeed is the way by 
which the young man escapes death. Mr. Prentice has certainly 
worked a new vein on juvenile fiction, and the ability with which 
he handles a diflBcult subject stamps him as a writer of uudoubted 
skill. 


J 


A. L. PUBMCATIONS. ’ i 


The Bravest of the Brave ; or, With Peterborough in Spain. 

By G. A. Henty. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. 

Paget. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

There are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so 
completely fallen into oblivion as those of the Earl of Peter- 
borough. This is largely due to the fact that they were over* 
shadowed by the glory and successes of Marlborough. His career 
as general extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that 
time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been sur- 
passed. 

“ Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work— to enforce 
the doctrine of courage and truth. Lads will read ‘ The Bravest of the Brave * 
with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure/'— Dailj/ Telegraph. 

The Cat of Bubastes ; A Story of Ancient Egypt. By G. A. 

Henty. With full-page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

A story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight 
into the customs of the Egyptian people. Amuba, a prince of the 
Rebu nation, is carried with his charioteer Jethro into slavery. 
They become inmates of the house of Ameres, the Egyptian high- 
priest, and are happy in his service until the priest’s son acci- 
dentally kills the sacred cat of Bubastes. In an outburst of popular 
fury Ameres is killed, and it rests with Jethro and Amuba to 
secure the escape of the high-priest’s son and daughter. 

“ The story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the 
perilous exodus into Asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed 
and full of exciting adventures. It is admirably illustrated.”— Safwrcfaj/ 
Review. 

With Washington at Monmouth : A Story of Three Phila- 
delphia Boys. By James Otis. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. 

Three Philadelphia boys, Seth Graydon “whose mother con- 
ducted a boarding-house which was patronized by the British 
officers;” Enoch Ball, “son of that Mrs. Ball whose dancing 
school was situated on Letitia Street,” and little Jacob, son of 
“ Chris, the Baker,” serve as the principal characters. The 
story is laid during the winter when Lord Howe held possession 
of the city, and the lads aid the cause by assisting the American 
spies who make regular and frequent visits from Valley Forge. 
One reads here of home-life in the captive city when bread was 
scarce among the people of the lower classes, and a reckless prodi- 
gality shown by the British officers, who passed the winter in 
feasting and merry-making while the members of the patriot army 
but a few miles away were suffering from both cold and hunger. 
The story abounds with pictures of Colonial life skillfully 
drawn, and the glimpses of Washington’s soldiers which are given 
show that the work has not been hastily done, or without con- 
siderable study. 









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